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■PHE LIEjRARY of 
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Two Copies- R«c«iveri 

m n 1903 

Ccpyngnl Entry 

CLASS^ CC XXc. No. 

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COPY B. 



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COPYRIGHTED 19OJ. 



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OUR MARTYRED PRESIDENTS. 

When great men die, the nations mourn, 

And, with impassioned eloquence. 
Describe the honors they have borne 

And grieve that God should call them hence. 
But, with the lapsing of the years 

And clamoring calls of new events, 
They dry their unavailing tears — 

Forget ere while the Providence. 

But when our bravest and our best 

The murderer's hand is made to feel, 
It wakens in each patriot breast 

A grief which doth more slowly heail. 
Stricken from pinnacle of fame, 

Down to death's stern and cold embrace! 
We bow our heads in grief and shame, 

And pray for pity on our race. 

The highest office in our land 

We ever give the good and great, 
And three times by the assassin's hand 

That high place hath been desolate. 
Let statesmen deal with cause and curse. 

For this we give them recompense, 
/give the tribute of my verse 

Unto our martyred presidents. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 



When slavery cursed our Southern mains 

Near half a century ago, 
And coveted our Western plains, 

Our loyal statesmen answered, "No, 
You shall not curse our sacred soil. 

Though you may strew it thick with graves, 
North, East and West will gladly toil. 

But never buy and sell your slaves." 

Anon the war-cloud rose, and then 

We felt the sting of Southern hate, 
And sought Vv'ith faith's unerring ken 

A man to guide the ship of State. 
Up from the plains of Illinois 

Arose our Lincoln staunch and true. 
And when we made of him our choice 

We builded better than we knew. 

Before him hostile armies came, 

Behind him traitors scoffed and sneered, 
But calm and patient just the same. 

Nor tongue of fiesh or fire he feared. 
The South armed all her valiant men 

And fought full well till sixty-three, 
When with a stroke of Lincoln's pen 

Her slaves were made forever free. 



Thus time rolled on and Sherman's men 
Had marched in triumph to the sea, 

A.nd Grant had braved the lion's den 

And snatched the sword from General Lee. 

A second time had Lincoln filled 
The honored presidential chair, 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 5 



But seeming adverse fate had willed 
That he must sureh^ perish there. 

One m.oment full of hope and cheer, 

The next the fatal bullet sped, 
And soon the man we loved so dear 

Was numbered with the silent dead. 
Victim of slavery's cruel might. 

Its faltering hand had aimed the blow ; 
For, to avenge its lasting blight, 

Its brave destroyer was laid low. 

Then panic reigned in Washington 

And, as the news flashed to and fro, 
Telling the bloody deed now done. 

All loyal hearts were filled with woe. 
Historic pages tell the tale — 

How widespread was the sore lament 
And how the nation's cheek grew pale 

Beside its martyred president. 

Outward expressions were in vain 

To symbolize its bitter grief ; 
So deep the wound, so real the pain, 

No finite power could bring relief. 
He^nds folded o'er lifeless breast, 

Eyes closed in peaceful dreamless sleep ; 
Rest, loyal spirit, sweetly rest — 

Thy vigil's long, thy slumber sweet. 

The years passed on, the North and Soutn 
Joined hands in close fraternal grip ; 

From war's red page and cannon's mouth 
They learned a truer fellowship. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 



Among Ohio's loyal sons 

Was one by special gifts endowed, 
One of her great and gifted ones 

Of whom she might be justly proud. 

James Abram Garfield — he who reads 

Today that fair and honored name 
Recalls the burning words and deeds 

Which wTote it high on scrolls of fame. 
From humble parentage he rose . 

A selfmade man in every sense ; 
Generous alike to friends and foes 

He charmed them by his eloquence. 

College and pulpit felt his power, 

Lawmakers hung upon his word. 
And in our land's imperilled hour 

He won new laurels by his sword. 
At last the people came to see 

His fitness for the Whitehouse chair. 
And he, though most reluctantly, 

Allowed their love to place him there. 

Then came the ofifice seeking craze, 

When spoils of office tempted men ; 
Oh ! those were dark, disgraceful days 

And may they never come again. 
One of those disappointed men 

Who signed his name Charles J. Gitteau, 
To whose appeals by voice and pen 

Our hero could but answer, *'No," 

Conceived the diabolic plot 

To murder him with ruthless hand. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 



And straightvv'ay fired the fatal shot 

Which sent dismay through all the land. 

Faulty had been the coward's aim 
And many weeks his victim lay 

In utter helplessness and pain, 

While strength and life fast ebbed away. 

Surgeons of national renown 

Watched by his bedside day and night, 
As lower drooped the shadows down 

And fiercer waged the unequal fight. 
Churches of differing name and creed 

United prayers to heaven sent, 
That God would hear the nation plead 

And heal its wounded president. 

Far from the city's dust and heat 

They bore him to the seaside, where 
He heard the ocean's rythmic beat 

And saw its sights divinely fair. 
Vain was the surgeon's wondrous skill. 

Vain seemed the sacred breath of prayer ; 
In spite of human love and will, 

Death set his sable signet there. 

The constant years glide slowly on. 

Grief's night is past, hope's morn is fair, 
Ohio gives another son 

To fill the presidential chair. 
William McKinley, cherished name. 

Shining resplendent as the sun. 
He earned a never dying fame 

Before his earthly race was run. 



8 POETICAL PORTRAITS 



When Sumter's flag was rent in twain 

By firey Southern shot and shell, 
When treason sought to stab and stain 

The Union we all loved so well, 
McKinley heard war's stern demand 

x\nd, giving to the winds his fears, 
For God, and home, and native land 

He joined the Ohio volunteers. 

For gallant service on the field, 

Honors and swift promotion came ; 
The boy, a veteran's might revealed, 

Beginning of a world-wide fame. 
Onward and upward still he went 

Climbing the ladder round by round, 
Until at last as president. 

The highest place, his genius found. 

Under his wise and faithful hand 

Hard times decreased and disappeared. 
And peace and plenty through the land 

Thousands of weary toilers cheered. 
The unemployed found work to do 

Outside the poorhouse or the jail, 
And workmen in their blouses new 

Carried the well-filled dinner pail. 

The shops and factories through the land 
With smoking chimneys seemed to say 

"Trade is no longer at a stand, 

Good times again have come this v;ay." 

An angry cloud of war arose 

In which we met the pride of Spain 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 



And triumphed o'er our haughty foes, 
Although they basely sunk the Maine. 

Alas for Spain ! her two great fleets 

Were quickly swept from oft* the waves, 
And with their sails for winding sheets 

Went dow^n to sleep in watery graves. 
The gloomy war clouds drifted by, 

The dove of peace came back once more, 
And 'neath a fair and cloudless sky 

Our country smiled from shore to shore. 

The gates of progress open wide 

As onward press the thronging years. 
One century has waned and died, 

The new-born century appears. 
McKinley takes his place again 

As pilot of the ship of state, 
In our long list of brilliant men 

Standing alone, supremely great. 

With starry banner waving o'er 

New countries gained beyond the seas, 
With rank and wealth on wave and shore, 

What prospect could more truly please? 
But now a darkness dims the light, 

The nostrils scent a sulphurous smell, 
And anarchy in secret might 

Slow rises from its native hell. 

At different times in by-gone years 
The nations felt its venomed sting, 

Whose history wTit in blood and tears 
Describes a desperate deadly thing. 



lo POETICAL PORTRAITS 



Not like a fearless enemy 

Willing to meet in open strife, 

But silently and secretly 

Plotting to strike the nation's life. 

Dark days we all remember well 

And wonder that they should be so, 
But listen while I sadly tell 

Of that dark day at Buffalo. 
The nation's products gathered there, 

The city opened wide its arms 
And welcomed all the brave and fair 

To come and view its countless charms. 

There went our honored president 

And with him went his fair, frail wife, 
None dreaming anarchy had sent 

To rob him of the gift of life. 
To Music Temple he repairs 

And 'neath its dome so vast and grand. 
Disdaining crowned and kingly airs. 

He gives to all a friendly hand. 

A fiend in human form draws near 

Like Judas with his traitor kiss, 
And listening thousands plainly hear 

The leaden serpent's deadly hiss. 
The victim's gathering paleness shows 

How fatal was the miscreant's aim, 
While his dark face amidst his foes 

Betrays no sense of fear or shame. 

The days go by, a week or more 

The nation stands wnth bated breath, 



POETICAL PORTRAITS ii 

With mind appalled and heart made sore 

Watching the tides of life and death. 
At last o'er all the land we hear 

The measured strokes of tolling bell, 
In glory ends the life so dear; 

Farewell, great kindly heart, farewell. 

In closing, let us not forget 

Our heroes numbered with the slain ; 
Their blood hath freedom's altars wet, 

God grant it may not be in vain. 
Nobly they lived, bravely they died. 

And while we note these sad events. 
With tender love and grateful pride 

We'll crown Our Martyred Presidents. 




12 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

TWENTY YEx\RS TO COME. 

I can't help thinking day by day 

How time is rolling on 
And of the changes there will be 

When a few short vears are g^one. 
I've thought of twenty years ago, 

Perhaps I'll change it some 
By writing down a thought or two 

On twenty years to come. 

As for myself I'm forty-five, 

Turning a little gray, 
But feel about as young as when 

I was a boy at play. 
But when you talk of comfort, though 

'Tis but a meagre crumb, 
To think of hair as white as snow 

In twenty years to come ! 

To think of walking with a cane. 

With feeble step and slow. 
With body full of ache and pain 

And poor back bending low ; 
With vision dim and hands ashake, 

Perhaps both deaf and dumb, 
A pretty picture I shall make 

In twenty years to com.e. 

But I am not the only one 

Whom twenty years will change. 

For tim.e v/ill greedy riot run 
With marvels new and strange ; 

New voices vvill salute the ear 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 13 

And new machinery hum, 
And hfe will sing its songs of cheer 
In twenty years to come. 

I wonder how the temperance cause 

Will be progressing then, 
When our yotmg girls are women grown 

And our small boys are men. 
Will liquor still be leading them 

Down into filth and slum. 
Or will our land be free again 

In twenty years to come? 

I prophesy that you and I, 

If still on earth, w^ill see 
Those brighter days and better ways 

We've prayed so long might be. 
The days when right instead of might 

Shall reign from sun to sun, 
And love and truth lead age and youth 

In twenty years to come. 

Yet, w^hile this change is going on 

Each one should do their best ; 
Toil now, and in the coming years 

There will be time for rest. 
It wall not do for us to sit 

With folded hands and mum. 
Thinking that tim.e will settle it 

In twenty years to come. 

The present we can call our own, 

The future may not be ; 
Great problems we can let alone 



14. POETICAL PORTRAITS 

For brighter minds you see. 
But there is work for one and all 

And work that must be done, 
Or grand results be few and small 

In twenty years to come. 

Some tilings 'tis true old Time will do 

Without the help of man, 
And twenty years of smiles and tears, 

Though but a narrow span, 
Will show his power from hour to hour 

Till of what he has done 
The marble pale will tell the tale 

In twenty years to come. 

Dear faces that we see today 

Will be forever missed, 
Hidden from mortal sight away 

By Death's dark angel kissed. 
Yes, many hands will folded lie 

And many lips be dumb. 
Gone from this life of toil and strife 

In twenty years to come. 

Let us be up and doing then 

While it is called to-day, 
Remembering the old refrain : 

"Time speeds away, away." 
Let us be full of cheerfulness 

And neither sour or glum, 
But be resigned to what we find 

In twenty years to come. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 15 



THANKSGIVING. 

First we would all our faults confess, 
Our many sins and tresspasses, 
Imploring Thee in sovereign grace 
To turn from them Thy righteous face. 
And now dear Father we implore, 
Deal with us still as heretofore 
And think upon our sins no more. 

Though countless as the ocean's sands 
Or stars that gem the brow of night, 

Bear them away with loving hands. 
Away forever out of sight. 

Then hear, O Lord, our thankful prayer 
For all Thy faithful, watchful care, 
From mom*s first streak of rosy light 
Till twilight deepened into night, 
Each day of all the passing year 
Was filled with blessing and good cheer. 

The seasons in their annual round 

Have brought their precious gifts along, 

The spring with light and beauty crowned 
And vocal with the wild bird's song. 

The summer with its fragrant breath 

Of roses in the ambient air. 
Its emerald robes the poet saith 

Are fit for king or queen to wear. 

The autumn with its changing hues. 
Its landscapes wrapt in dreamy haze, 



1 6 POETICAL PORTRAITS 



Its silent soul-subduing views 
Wherever mortal vision gaze. 

The winter with its snowy veil, 

Its frost-gems sparkling in the light, 

Its low hung clouds, its winds weird wail 
And solemn voices of the night. 

For home and friends to us so dear, 
For tender words and fond caress. 

And for Thy love through all the year 
We offer sincere thankfulness. 







POETICAL PORTRAITS 17 



"THE CHURCH FAIR." 

Said the Pastor to the Deacons, I am sorry, but I find, 
That the salary which you promised is about three 

months behind ; 
I have tried my best to earn it, and, as it is rather small, 
If you could but pav it promptly 'twould be better for us 

all. 

Then the Deacons held a council and they said our Pas- 
tor's right. 

He works hard enough to earn it, he should have it, hon- 
or bright; 

But the crops are poor this season and the taxes run so 
high, 

It will be a job to raise it, but of course we'll have to try. 

*'Now," said Deacon Jones, *'I tell ye, my wife's quite a 

financier. 
And she says the way to dew it is to have a fair this year. 
I don't know so much about it, but she says its really 

grand, 
That thev're having 'em all over, — finest churches in the 

land." 

"But," replied old Deacon Goodwin, as he shook his 

saintly head, 
"I'm afraid we shall not prosper, for the Book of books 

has said, 
God will have our tithes and offerings carried to His 

temple there. 
But in all that grand old Bible not one word about a fair. 



i8 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

I suppose that I'm old-fashioned for I started long ago, 
And the progress I am making I admit is rather slow. 
I have always tried to travel in the straight and narrow 

way, 
Taking for my daily motto, 'we must watch as well as 

pray.' 

Now I see by watching closely Vv^e are drifting, drifting 

far. 
And I fear lest our ship Zion strike an ugly reef or bar. 
We are getting weak and worldly, but I didn't mean to 

scold. 
Go ahead without me brethren, heed me not, I'm getting 

old." 

Then he walked away and left them and a younger Dea- 
con said, 

"Deacon Goodwin's failing brethren, it's a trouble in his 
head. 

He has been a faithful brother but his mind is getting 
dim. 

And if we make up the salary we can't stop to humor 
him." 

So they called a general council and they argued pro 

and con, 
And they came to the conclusion that the fair was going 

on. 
For the Pastor and the Deacons and the new financial 

board. 
Decided that a blessing could be just as well outpoured — 

On the aprons and the bonnets and the miscellaneous 

trash 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 19 

They would get as a donation to be bartered off for cash, 
As upon the tithes and offerings which they could so ill 

afford, 
To make ready for the temple as an offering to the Lord. 

Then they reasoned very shrewdly, we will advertise it 

well, 
What a heap of useful articles we are going to have to 

sell, 
And a tenor and contralto from the city will be there 
With the best of local talent as attractions to the fair. 

So they bought and begg'd and borrowed and they 

rushed it night and day 
'Til they got so interested that they hadn't time to pray. 
They held services every Sunday but the Spirit wasn't 

there. 
For the hearts of most the members were just set upon 

the fair. 
The Pastor saw the trouble and he tried to hurry through. 
Preaching twenty minute sermons — 'twas the best thing 

he could do, 
For the members were not in it, that was just as plain as 

day, 
And the efforts of the pulpit were entirely thrown away. 

After weeks and weeks of working with an all consuming 

zeal, 
After pushing late and early with their shoulders to the 

wheel, 
They finally decided on the all important night. 
When the harvest should be gathered and the debt be 

paid outright. 



20 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

'Twas the night of the prayer meeting (as it used to be 

of old) 
"But the ashes on the ahar had for many weeks been 

cold." 
A mighty crowd assembled and the church was all aglow, 
With the "booths" and fancy articles, the "costumes" 

and the show. 

But the babel of loud voices crying out the different 
wares 

Seemed confusion to a stranger who had entered una- 
wares ; 

And he stood a moment gazing with a look of sad sur- 
prise, 

And no wonder, 'twas an angel who had entered in dis- 
guise. 

From the upper sanctuary he had hastened to be there 
With God's people as they gathered in the church for 

praise and prayer ; 
But the "costumes" and the "business" of the sainted 

sisterhood 
Very near upset the angel as we have no doubt it Vv^ould. 

Speechless for a moment stood he, with amazement 
shocked and dumb, 

When he heard a shrill voice saying, "Stranger we are 
glad you've come 

Won't you buy this pretty apron, as a bargain it's im- 
mense, 

It's the very best of gingham and the price is fifty cents." 

"Let us pray," he feebly faltered, and low kneeling on 
the floor 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 21 

He sent upward such petition as they never heard before; 
Hushed the organ's tuneful swelling, hushed the din and 

tumult there. 
Silence as of death fell round thenl as the stranger 

breathed his prayer. 

"Father," cried he, "I entreat thee pardon now this 
church's sin 

Give it real unfeigned repentance, let the work this night 
begin ; 

And my Father shield them ever from the tempter's art- 
ful snare. 

From the sin of raising money through a God dishonor- 
ing fair." 

As he ceased he vanished from them, no one saw him 

pass the door. 
No one present could remember ever seeing him before. 
Said the Pastor to the Deacons and the new financial 

board, 
"I believe it was an Angel from the presence of the Lord. 

And I move you that this meeting be adjourned without 

delay 
And hereafter raise our money in a more appropriate 

way." 
Then a loud "Amen" resounded and a sister filled with 

zeal, 
OflFered to give ten dollars, "for," she said, "I truly 

feel 

That if we would have God's blessin' poured upon us 
throu' and throu' 



22 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

We must meet onr obligations as His people used to 

dew. 
I know I have been penurious, grudging graspin', mean 

and small, 
But I'm sorry, awful sorry, may the Lord forgive us all. 

Others followed with their pledges and confessions by 

the score, 
And the wind breathed low to listen as it wandered by 

the door. 
And the spirit came upon them and they promised then 

and there 
They would never, ;^^z;^r, NEVER, try to hold another fair. 

Deacon Goodwin's spirit struggled with its cumbrous 

load of clay. 
Like a sunny bird imprisoned that would gladly soar 

away, 
And the family tiptoed lightly, hushed each sound of 

laugh or song. 
For they said, and said it sadly, ''Father won't be with 

us long." 

But when some one late returning from that most suc- 
cessful fair, 

Stopped and gently told the Deacon of the glorious vic- 
tory there, 

He just shouted "Hallelujah," for his strength came 
back again. 

And he finished his thanksgiving with a jubilant 
"Amen." 



( 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 23 



AN ADIRONDACK PINE. 

Braving the storms of centuries 
This last and lonely pine 

Had seen the birth of kingdoms 
And witnessed their decline. 

Fair monarch of the forest 
It towered in native pride, 

Throwing its lengthened shado\/ 
Far np the steep hillside. 

On life's vast stage of action 
Men played their little parts ; 

Amassed collossal fortunes 
In traffic's busy marts. 

Wrote high their names in honor 
On fame's illustrious scroll, 

And fainted ere they rested 
Beside the shining goal. 

And still the old Pine flourished, 

Until in sixty-three 
The woodman would no longer 

In mercy spare the tree. 

Blow after blow indented 
The soft and resinous w^ood 

Until in seeming terror 

It trembled where it stood. 

In loud reverberations 

It shook the solid ground. 



24- POETICAL PORTRAITS 

And people heard and wondered 
For many miles around. 

Attempting then to saw it, 
(His pardon I should beg) 

But somehow accidentally 
The woodman sawed his leg. 

So then he left it lying 
For forty years or more, 

'Til bark and sap had perished 
And time had scarred it sore. 

Yet strange to say its great heart 
Was just as sound and good, 

As when in peerless beauty, 
The King of Pines it stood. 

May we not learn a lesson 
From this ancestral tree 

Whose heart remained unshaken 
For half a century ? 

We cannot tell what moment 
These mortal lives will fade ; 

Nor when these feeble bodies 
May in their graves be laid. 

But we can make the soul life 
So sweet and so sublime, 

That death will but embalm it 
Just as it did the Pine. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 23 



THE BIBLE. 

Grand Lighthouse of the ages, 
Safe chart for land or sea, 

Its blessing burdened pages 
Open to you and me 

A mine of priceless treasure, 
A princely legacy. 

Therein we read the story 

Of God's creative skill. 
The majesty and glory 

Of His free sovereign will, 
And how His gracious purposes 

He will in time fulfill. 

Therein of man's transgression 
We have a strict account, 

Of traitorous secession 
From mercy's open fount. 

And of the Law God given 
On Sinai's quaking mount. 

It also tells the story 

Of desert wanderings, 
Red sea and Jordon crossings, 

Down fall of Caanan's kings, 
Of Judges and of Prophets 

With the songs that David sings. 

There, too, of free salvation 

We see the wondrous plan, 
The Infinite redemption 



26 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

Through Calvary's spotless Lamb ; 
The healing and the cleansing 
Of sick and sinful man. 

Its precepts are the wisest, 

Its promises the best ; 
To weary, wayworn pilgrims 

It gives joy, peace and rest, 
And incorrupt inheritance 

Among the pure and blest. 

Now to this matchless volume 
Let us our tribute pay; 

Majestic rock of ages, 

The light of life's dark day. 

The dear old Family Bible, 
The Life, the Truth, the Wav. 




POETICAL PORTRAITS 27 

HONOR TO YOUTH AND OLD AGE. 

I take off my hat to the children, , 

The nice and the naughty ones too ; 
To me they are all nearly perfect — 

So tell me what else can I do? 
I love them and they understand it ; 

I just let them have their own way — 
In summer they ride in my carriage, 

In winter they ride in my sleigh. 

I take off my hat to the children, 

They bring back my childhood again ; 
Today they are romping and playing, 

Tomorrow grow^n women and men ; 
Today they are treaaing the pathway 

Their fathers and mothers have trod ; 
Tomorrow, alas, they may wander 

Afar in the way that is broad. 

So I take off my hat to the children 

And gather them round me and tell 
To the ears ever ready to listen 

That story the child loves so well ; 
And as I faithfully tell it 

I pray that when earth ties are riven, 
Each dear little one may be gathered 

Safe home in the Kingdom of Heaven. 

I take off my hat to the aged, 

I honor the hoary hair 
Where snowliakes of time have fallen 

And linger forever there ; 



28 POETICAL PORTRAITS 



Whose faces are scrolled atid letter'd 

By time's impartial pen, 
Writing out the cares and conflicts 

Of o'er-burdened women and men. 



I take off my hat to the aged 

Whose shriveled and wrinkled hands, 
Seem beckoning to dear ones who wander 

Afar in the Heavenly lands. 
They seem to be nearing the river 

Whose waters are deep and cold, 
And whose pale mist riseth forever 

Between them and the sands of gold. 

Yes, I take off my hat to the aged 

And whisper a word of cheer, 
And strive to reflect that spirit 

So faintly reflected here. 
The spirit of love and affection 

For which some are longing, I know, 
For love melts the heart of the aged, 

As sunshine the crystals of snow. 




POETICAL PORTRAITS 29 

IN DREAMLAND. 

The day hath flown by on its pinions of Hght 

And with fervent thanksgiving I welcome the night , 

The shadows that gather, the soft dews which fall 

And the calm sacred silence that resteth on all. 

From the day's fret and worry my soul finds release 

And is filled with the spirit of Infinite peace. 

The darkness grows deeper, my drooping lids close 

And my thoughts narrow down to a sense of repose ; 

To dreamland I'm going, to wander at will 

Where impulse may lead me when reason is still. 

My barque is now launched on the deep waveless sea 

Which borders life's shore and the land of the free. 

Free thought and free fancy, how real it all seems — 

This fair fruitful country, the land of our dreams. 

Afar o'er the waters lights flash to and fro; 

My barque must be nearing the shore, yes, for lo. 

Faint sounds o'er the waters are borne to my ears 

And dimly, yet surely, the outline appears. 

The moments flit by, ah my voyage is o'er 

For the keel of the boat is now kissing the shore. 

In dreamland, sweet dreamland, I wander as free 

As the waters in winding their way to the sea. 

Hark ! voices familiar I now recognize, 

And forms as familiar before me arise. 

My father and mother, who died long ago, 

In dreamland I meet them and greet them, and know 

The bliss of reunion, and sweet it doth seem. 

Though reason would tell me, 'twas only a dream. 

Other loved ones are coming, a numerous throng ; 

Their welcomes are hearty, their hand-clasps are strong, 

Their eyes are agleam with the same tender glow 

Which melted my heart in the dear long ago. 



so POETICAL PORTRAITS 

I enter the home of my childhood again, 
All things are the same as in infancy when 
The old roof-tree sheltered an unbroken band 
And a rose-tinted future our hopeful hearts planned. 
The old-fashioned furniture, cozy and bright, 
The fireplace dififusing its soft mellow light, 
The old pictures hanging upon the same walls, 
The carpeted stairways and wide spacious halls. 
The footfalls, the voices, the stir without strife 
Bringing out the harmonious rhythm of life. 
I look and I listen, so real doth it seem. 
It surely is more than a swift passing dream. 
Ah, no, for 'tis only in dreamland that we 
Wander back to the Eden of youth, hear or see 
The sights and the sounds of that dim distant shore 
Whose outline once faded returns never more. 




POETICAL PORTRAITS 31 

WINTER IN THE ADIRONDACKS. 

Deep lies the snow upon the ground, 
And here and there a snowy mound 
Tells where shrub, evergreen or rock 
Lies shrouded in its fleecy frock. 

Afar the mountain tops are seen, 
Snow crowned, o'erlooking wide ravine 
And forests frosted white with snow, 
Through which the biting north winds blow. 

Still water streams are frozen o'er 
But still we hear the muffled roar 
Of rapids running day and night. 
Foam crested torrents creamy white. 

Mist shrouded waters, on they go 
Till buried 'neath the ice below 
They take their less conspicuous way 
In darkness veiled from light of day. 

The marshlands where the rabbits play 
And where at times the wild deer stray 
Are trodden by unnumbered feet 
'Til many firm trod paths are beat. 

Skirting the lowlands far and wide 
Are upland plains or sloped hillside, 
Where sprtice and hemlock, balsam, ash, 
Birch, elm and maple wave and flash 

Their jeweled plumes in wind and sun 
As constant as the streamlets run. 



32 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

'Till pioneer or lumberman, 
Infringing on the primeval plan, 

Proceeds with saw and ax to raze 
Those landmarks of primeval days, 
Crowding the stern and stately ranks 
Unto the frozen river banks. 

When April rains melt ice and snow 
And free again the waters f^ow. 
The harv^ests of those plains and hills 
Will float to feed the lumber mills. 

The woods are still today and seem 
Like pictures in a midnight dream, 
The pall like snow, the frosty air. 
And silence reigning everywhere. 

Hark ! what is that blood curdling sound, 
The baying of a hunter's hound, 
He follows on the red deer's track, 
Nor threat nor force can turn him back. 

Nearer they come and now we see 
The hunted stag bound wearily 
With tongue protruding looking back 
At fierce pursuer on its track. 

Now steps the hunter into view 
With gleaming riile aiming true, 
A loud report, the ball has sped, 
The noble game has fallen dead. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 33 

No more to seek the lakelet's side 
Where lily pads float far and wide, 
While stars shine faint and moon is dim 
And fireflies flashing startle him. 

No more to snift the scented air 
Or heed the danger signals there ; 
Helpless and lifeless there he lies 
The hardy hunter's well earned prize. 

The shades of night are falling now 
And shadows wreathe the mountain's brow, 
The hunter hangs the deer close by 
On bended sapling swinging high. 

Then tramps away fearless of harm 
To where his shanty snug and warm 
Gives shelter from the stinging blast 
Or wolf or panther prowling past. 

Lighting his fire he cooks and dines, 
Then on his bough-strewn couch reclines, 
Health and contentment here alone, 
Happy as king upon his throne. 

His fire bums low, he falls asleep, 

Nor dreams nor wakes in slumber deep, 

He hears not hoot of wakeful owl 

Nor panther's scream nor bear's low growl. 

The hound well fed seeks sweet repose, 
But restless feet and quivering nose 
Tell that in dreams afar or near 
He still pursues the panting deer. 



34- POE TICAL FOR TRAITS 

The hours pass on, the morning breaks, 
The Hght is dimmed by falling flakes, 
The wind howls wrathful far and wide 
Through wild ravine o'er mountain side. 

The hunter cannot leave his lair 
To follow wolf or deer or bear. 
So spends his time as best he may 
Until the storm shall pass away. 

Next morn a striking change is seen, 
The sky is clear, the air less keen. 
The hunter seeks the crystal spring 
For nature's free-will offering. 

He chains the hound to shanty post 
Lest he may leave his generous host 
To wander through the woods at will, 
To scent, to run, to wound or kill. 

After his plain repast is o'er 
The hunter tidies up the floor. 
Puts things to rights in general way 
Then plans his pastime for the day. 

Gull pond lies to the south and west 
And, though in snowy vestments dressed, 
Beneath its robes of snow and ice 
The trout are floating, and the price 

Of getting some will be the tramp 
Down to the lake and back to camp ; 
At noon the lake is reached, and then 
He rests and eats and smokes again. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS S5 

Ignoring theories found in books 
He cuts his holes and baits his hooks, 
Drops in and waits for hungry trout 
To bite so he may pull him out. 

Not long he waits, a line descends. 
The pole attached as swiftly bends ; 
Now is the time to pull it out. 
He pulls and lands a fine, large trout. 

Others soon bite, he pulls them out ; 
The pond seems full of hungry trout ; 
Enough he takes to fill his pack, 
Picks up his things and trudges back. 

The next day he must make the round 
Of some wolf traps, and takes the hound 
Led by a cord, for fear lest he 
May somehow a deserter be. 

He tramps until the sun is high 
When suddenly he hears a cry — 
A wailing cry — as if of pain. 
Followed by rattling of a chain. 

"A wolf, a wolf, ha ! ha ! old chap, 
What are you doing with my trap ?" 
The savage beast makes no reply. 
His time has come to do or die. 

With foaming mouth and glaring eye 
He sends forth one defiant cry, 
Leaps hither, thither, to and fro, 
But held by chain he cannot go. 



36 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

Meanwhile the hunter taking aim 
Fires one true shot and takes the game, 
The wolf is vanquished on the spot 
By that sure aim and deadly shot. 

This picture was of years ago 
When wolves prowled freely to and fro, 
And bears and panthers found it play 
Less fiercer game to catch and slay. 

Today but few of them are found 
In all the south woods hunting ground ; 
Sometimes old bruin void of sense 
Puts his black form in evidence. 

And children of the pioneer 

Betake them hom.eward filled with fear. 

And '*0 my, papa, we have seen 

A big black bear up the ravine." 

Then word is sent to neighbors near. 
And soon well armed the men appear. 
Deploying quickly left and right 
To intercept his bearship's flight. 

Soon sharp reports disturb the air, 
Suggesting they have found the bear, 
'Tis true, and killed as soon as found — 
A bear 'twill weigh four hundred pound. 

Now gentle reader, I must say 
"Farewell" — perhaps some future day 
I'll tell you something (more or less) 
Of summer in the wilderness. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 37 

ROUND AND ROUND. 

Round and round the great sun 

Planets large and small, 
Laws of gravitation 

Hold them one and all ; 
Mighty unseen forces 

Working night and day 
Keep them facing sunward, 

Guide them in their way. 

Round and round the seasons 

Slowly come and go, 
Stimmer brings the flowers, 

Winter brings the snow; 
Spring is bright with promise. 

Autumn tinged with gold — 
Thus it hath been ever 

From the days of old. 

Round and round we wander 

Seemingly astray 
From the light of ages. 

From the perfect way; 
But our Father keepeth 

Watch above us all. 
And His love will hold us 

Should we faint or fall. 



SS POETICAL PORTRAITS 

THE MONTHS OF THE YEAR. 

JANUARY. 

The snow lies heavy o'er hill and vale, 

The earth is buried in snovv% 
And the streamlets covered with icy mail 

In silence and darkness flow. 

FEBRUARY. 

This is the month when the sleeping bear 

Comes out of his hollow tree 
To judge if the weather be foul or fair, 

What the coming days may be. 

MARCH. 

The month of storms ; the north wind howls 

Eike spirits in mortal pain, 
The clouds float high in an angry sky, 

But spring is coming again. 

APRIL. 

The buds and blossoms are starting forth 

Kissed by the April showers, 
And the wind tho' still in the wintry north 

Is perfumed by the breath of flowers. 

MAY. 

The winter is over, the birds have come 

Back from the southern land. 
The skies are clear in the May time dear 

And Nature is sweet and grand. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 39 

JUNE. 

The heart of the summer breathes in June 

With a fragrant hopeful breath, 
The roses scatter their sweet perfume, 

Then fade into mist and death. 

JULY. 

The cornblades rustle and whisper low, 

The wild bird soars and sings, 
And Nature's minor chords we know 

Are the sound of growing things. 

AUGUST. 

The people are beating a swift retreat 

To the beaches and lakesides fair 
To get away from the dust and heat 

Of the sweltering summer air. 

SEPTEMBER. 

The heat is over, the zephyrs sigh 

Where the golden pippins swing, 
There's a restful calm in the fair blue sky 

And beauty in everything. 

OCTOBER. 

The leaves are turning from green to gold 

Through the fine October days. 
And the sun seems sad as the year grows old, 
For it veils its face 'neath the silken fold 

Of the shimmering Autumn haze. 



io POETICAL PORTRAITS 

NOVEMBER. 

The leaves have fallen, the trees are bare, 
Some mornings the ground is white, 

Jack Frost is busy in earth and air 
Changing the bloom to blight. 

DECEMBER. 

We cannot mourn for the dying year, 

For hope exultant swells. 
As on the frosty air we hear 

The joyous Christmas bells. 



Beautiful months and beautiful years 
Of shine and shadow, of smiles and tears, 
Of love and yearning, of hopes and fears, 
I weave them together and now it appears 
A chaplet of gold for the brow of the years. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 4.1 

STAR LAKE. 

Far, far away from the cities' din, 

The cities' filth and the cities' sin, 

In the northern part of the Empire State, 

Where the snow falls early and lingers late ; 

Where the Ice King comes from his northern zone — 

When flowers have withered and birds have flown — 

And binds the rivers and lakes and springs 

With his icy chains and his frosty rings — 

There lieth a mighty wilderness, 

A picture of primitive loveliness. 

In solemn grandeur its mountains rise 

Till their mist-veiled tops seem to touch the skies. 

In summer time, when the days are bright, 

A blue haze covers each misty height — 

To lovers of beauty a glorious sight. 

Far over the valleys that lie between, 

A vision of emerald bloom is seen, 

Broken here and there by the silver sheen 

Of shimmering lakes where the wild deer play 

On their pebbly shores, at the close of day. 

Here numerous rivers have their source. 

And from here they start on their seavv^ard course, 

Deepening and widening till far below 

They charm eye and ear with their murmuring flow. 

On the northern side of this wilderness, 

W^here nature and art now hold sacred tryst, 

Lies a body of water, as calm and blue 

As the sky above ; and its outlines true 

Of a beautiful star have served to make 

A name for this water : We call it Star Lake. 



42 POETICAL PORTRAITS 



Inclosed by the forest, its holy calm 

Is rivaled alone by its healing balm. 

As we ripple its waters with paddle or oars, 

Or sit, or stand on its quiet shores. 

Gazing afar at its fair outlines, 

As the hours go by and the day declines, 

And the stars come out for their nightly show 

And mirror themselves in the depths below, 

We heed them not, for a vision appears. 

And the veil is drawn from the long dark years. 



Now, I take my pen and briefly trace 
Some scenes in the lives of a vanished race. 
Though they paddle no more o'er waters blue, 
Or to wooded shore moor their light canoe. 
Or listen again to the wind harp's wail — 
The Great Spirit's voice in the fitful gale — 
They have left their record of hopes and fears, 
Of pride and passion, of smiles and tears. 
And the Red men's history, we may know, 
Though the actors lived in the long ago. 



Here the Indian lover, with heart as true 
As the Great North Star in the changeless blue, 
To the Indian maid told his sweet love-tale 
By the campfire's glow, or the moonlight pale. 
Here the Indian hunter went in and out, 
Shot the panting deer, caught the agile trout, 
Built his tall tepee by the lakelet's side. 
As a rough rude home for his dusky bride ; 
Brought in the feathers of duck and goose 
For a nice soft bed for his young papoose. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 43 

Here the Indian warrior, trained to strife, 
Knowing not the value of human life. 
With his tomahawk and scalping knife, 
Made the forest ring with his fearful yell. 
And scenes that rivaled the white man's hell. 
But his star of destiny rose and fell ; 
For time rolled on and the white man came. 
And the Indian left his wilds and game 
And the bones of his fathers, at Fate's behest. 
For new, strange scenes in the far, far west. 



Still the forest lay, in its virgin pride, 
A world by itself — a world so wide, 
So beautiful, wonderful, rich and grand — 
To the hunter and settler, the promised land. 
Here the tall pines grew in their native grace. 
And the spruce and hemlock found a place ; 
The beech, and maple, and cherry, and ash, 
And birch, and balsam, would bring the cash, 
When made into paper or lumber ; and so. 
The pride of the forest must be laid low. 



Then the hills were rich with shining ore. 

So the rocks must be blasted, and rent and tore; 

And mills be builded upon the streams 

And active life take the place of dreams. 

Afar, in the distance, the Iron Horse blew 

His trumpet of warning ; the clearings grew ; 

And farms, and buildings, and centers of trade, 

Were signs of progress the white man made — 

Signs fulfilling from day to day, 

As the old scenes faded and passed away. 



U POETICAL PORTRAITS 



Then the people came from the cities' din, 

The cities' filth and the cities' sin, 

And they saw our beautiful lakelet here, 

Bordered with evergreens far and near ; 

Inhaled the fragrance of fir and pine, 

Drank copious draughts of nature's wine ; 

And they made them camps on its sunny shores, 

And tarried, and rested on idle oars ; 

And some of them, lifting their hearts in prayer. 

Thanked God for a picture so pure and fair. 



Some came, in the strength of youth and prime, 
For fun and frolic and real good time ; 
To explore the region, and see the sights, 
And paddle for deer in the foggy nights ; 
To climb the mountains, so grand and tall, 
And wish, it may be, that they owned them all. 
Some came, with fevered and sunken cheeks. 
To camp by the lake for a few short weeks, 
To drink pure w^ater, and breathe pure air. 
And find relief from their anxious care. 



Then they all went back to the towns again. 

With a homesick feeling akin to pain, 

And vowed when another year rolled round. 

To return to the Star Lake camping ground. 

And they came again as they prophesied, 

And built them cottages, side by side. 

Some being wealthy, discreet, and wise, 

Erected hotels of enormous size, 

For thousands of people were fully awake, 

And anxious for quarters, up there, at Star Lake. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS ^5 



And still they are coming, and still they go ; 

While steam-whistles shriek in the vales below, 

And railtrains travel with rush and roar. 

Round steep sharp curves, where the speed is slower. 

Till the whistle blows, and the brakes are down, 

At Oswegatchie, the Side Hill Town. 

Here an elegant 'bus the passengers take 

For a two miles ride to the great Star Lake. 

And the train moves on, and we then see signs 

Of what they are doing at Benson Mines. 



Still onward, and soon the conductor calls : 

**A11 passengers out ! This is Newton Falls." 

Here they make paper of finest degree, 

And here they make money, abundant and free. 

Now reader, in closing, I wish you success, 

And pray the All Father your portion to bless ; 

But should life's burdens prove heavy to bear 

And bov/ down your spirit with weakness and care, 

Come up to Star Lake, for this sparkling gem 

Has always a balm for the spirits of men. 




4-6 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

WALKING THE PLANK. 

Across the high seas in the days long agone, 

Bold Pirate ships floated with black flags thereon ; 

A skull and cross-bones, at their mast-head portrayed, 

Were sure tokens of death to the prisoners they made. 

After stripping them clean of all treasures possessed, 

With no thought of mercy in any black breast, 

Regardless alike as to age, sex or rank. 

The prisoners were murdered by walking the plank. 

Surrounded by Pirates, no succor was near, 
But hopeless and helpless, and trembling with fear, 
With hands tied behind them they waited the will 
Of those who delighted to plunder and kill. 
A long plank was laid on the ship's deck, and then 
Pushed out o'er the water by strong willing men ; 
Then guarded by Pirates in rear and on flank. 
The prisoners were murdered by walking the plank. 

There are Pirates today on life's treacherous sea, 

Blood-thirsty and cruel as demons could be, 

They live at their ease, like the Pirates of old. 

And plunder and murder for silver and gold. 

I refer to the men who engage in the trade 

By which beggars and paupers and drunkards are made, 

For after the rum seller's poison they've drank, 

They finish the drama by walking the plank. 

We pity the victims who fell long ago, 

And try to imagine the sad scenes of woe. 

As with vain plea for mercy they sank neath the wave, 

And living, went down to a watery grave. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 4-7 

We truly thank God that such horrors are o'er, 
And Pirates sail over the high seas no more ; 
The gallows and gibbet thinned out the black rank 
And stopped the dread torture of walking the plank. 



But the bold whiskey Pirates in endless array, 

Unhindered are doing their dark work today. 

In the palace hotel, in the fiery saloon. 

In the blackness of midnight or glare of the noon, 

In tempest or sunshine, in peace or in strife, 

Devoid of all feeling for love or for life, 

They strip their weak victims 'til hope becomes blank, 

And nothing is left them but walking the plank. 



We pray for the drunkard, we pity his fall, 
And yet for his rescue do nothing at all. 
We license the Pirates to follow the trade, 
Bv which he a drunkard and outcast is made ; 
Then pretend to be shocked at the sound of the knell 
Which warns that he sleeps but to 'waken in hell. 
Oh, sad was the day when he stumbled and sank. 
While good Christian voters were holding the plank. 



Oh, cruel the mockery of sermons and prayers, 
While we leave the saloon with temptations and snares, 
To allure men away from the Saviour of men. 
And bhnd them and bind them and curse them again. 
Either muffle the bells of our churches today, 
And shroud every Bible in darkness away, 
Or strike off the fetters which dismally clank, 
Where rum's countless victims are walking the plank. 



48 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

My friends, it is time that with Jericho shout, 
We put alcohol to inglorious rout. 
Let its minions be shown that the set time has come, 
To emancipate men from the bondage of rum. 
Yes, rise in your manhood, ye sons of the brave, 
Your imperilled brothers to rescue and save. 
Crush out the vile traffic, then God w^e may thank 
That no more poor victims are walking the plank. 




POETICAL PORTRAITS 49 



HATE. 

Fierce unholy passion, 

Accursed art thou, 
To write of thee justly 

I hardly know how ; 
Thy spirit no mortal 

Can treasure, but lo ! 
His cup runneth over 

With sorrow and woe. 

Thou offspring of evil, 

Thou waif of the night, 
Ever choosing the darkness. 

And shunning the light ; 
Thou turnest life's pleasures 

To bitterest gall, 
By mixing and pouring 

And poisoning all. 

Give thee but an entrance 

To mind or to heart. 
And love, peace and joy spread 

Their wings and depart. 
Let come dire misfortune, 

We bow to our fate. 
But oh ! do not leave us 

The victims of hate. 

LOVE. 

Magic enthrallment, 
Tender and sweet, 

Bringing the bravest 
Low at thy feet. 



fo POETICAL PORTRAITS 



Vision of Eden, 

Fadeless and pure, 
All else may wither, 

Love will endure. 

Out on life's pathway 

Lonely we roam. 
Seeking- a fortune. 

Friends and a home. 
Love in compassion 

Touches the heart, 
Home, friends and fortune 

It doth impart. 

Wonderful presence, 

Never in vain, 
Soothing our sorrows. 

Easing our pain ; 
Sharing our burdens. 

Smoothing the road, 
Leading us gently 

Upward to God. 

HEAVEN. 

Say not that Heaven lieth yonder. 

Beyond the mist and spray ; 
We may walk in Heaven's golden splendor, 

Happy pilgrims, day by day. 

Even here Edenic joys are given, 

The gates of life ope' wide ; 
The pure in heart see God, and this is Heaven, 

Reflect Him, and are satisfied. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 51 

Beneath the cross the crown is shining, 

Take up thy cross today ; 
Spend not an hour in vain repining, 

Time speeds away, away. 

AUTUMN. 

The calm and restful time has come, 
Of all the year the sweetest, best ; 
Nor wild birds' song, nor wild bees' hum, 
Disturbs my rest. 

The clouds of morn have sailed away 

'Til none in the wide heaven I view ; 
The sunlight smiles this autumn day, 
Through cloudless blue. 

In peace I sleep, in peace I wake ; 
Of nature's holy calm possessed. 
Naught can I give, I simply take, 
God's boon of rest. 

WHY? 

Afar in the shining heavens 

The cloud fleets dreamily drift, 
And the changing panorama's 

Invisible fingers shift. 
No warning of storm is in them, 

No token of war or strife ; 
They only portray the brightness 

Of a pure and peaceful life. 



52 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

The snnlig^ht falls in blessing 

Far over the glad green earth, 
And sounds harmonious mingle 

As though heaven had given them birth. 
The air is filled with a fragrance 

As rare as the sweetest balm, 
And the pulse of nature is beating 

To the hush of a Sabbath calm. 

The discords of earth no longer 

Grate harshly upon my ear ; 
I seem to have risen above them. 

And the music that now I hear 
Is like to the low-toned zephyrs 

That murmur when storms are o'er, 
Or the ripple of silver wavelets 

That break on a stormless shore. 

I gaze on the matchless beauty 

Of the earth, and air, and sky. 
Till I seem to see in their splendor 

The dawn of the "by and by." 
Why is it that visions so perfect 

Must pass away, like a breath. 
And over each rainbow of promise 

Bend ever the gloom of death? 

Why is it that loved and loving 

Must fade like the flowers away, 
And go from our sight as quickly 

As the bloom of a summer day ? 
Oh ! that out of the sunny silence 

That reigns in the cloud-flecked sky, 
Might fall on my listening spirit, 

God's answer, — telling me Why. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 53 



THE FIRST SNOWSTORM. 



From the sky with clouds a frown 
Fell the feathery snowflakes down, 
Silent fell on roof and street, 
Slowly melting 'neath our feet. 
Hundreds, thousands, millions there 
Filling all the dampened air, 
Melting, lingering, 'til at last. 
Falling thick and falling fast, 
All the earth is veiled from sight, 
'Neath a fieecy robe of white. 



Leafless trees by frosts laid bare, 
Shivering in the wintry air. 
Seem to breathe a silent prayer 
Of thanKsgiving to the snow 
Spreading out its mantle so; 
Clothing them in spotless dress 
Peerless in its loveliness. 
Lower droop the branches down, 
Fairer grows their crystal crown, 
'Til they seem like fairy bowers 
Blossoming with magic flowers. 



Evening comes with sombre pall. 
Still the pearly snowflakes fall ; 
And the late pedestrian. 
Through the darkness trudging on, 
Hails with joy the cheerful light 
Of his home this cheerless night. 



54 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

May the one who sends the snow 
Every needed gift bestow, 
Giving to the helpless poor, 
Treasures from His bounteous store, 
'Til the poorest one shall know 
God is good who gives the snow. 

THE MIDNIGHT THUNDER PEAL. 

Let the lightning flash around me, and the thunder mut- 
ter loud, 

Let the monarchs of the forest by the tempest's breath 
be bowed ; 

I can stand the test by daylight, and no mortal terrors 
feel, 

But avert from me the horrors of the midnight thunder 
peal. 

Were you ever rudely wakened from some soul entranc- 
ing dream, 

By the thunder's solemn booming and the lightning's 
lurid gleam ; 

When the sky above seemed burning and the solid earth 
to reel 

'Neath the loud reverberations of the awful thunder peal ? 

Though we may not stay the lightning as it rushes 

through the air 
On its bright electric pinions, hither, thither, everywhere ; 
O, that Franklin's ghost w^ould rally, and some gracious 

plan reveal 
To reduce the roar and rattle of the midnight thunder 

peal! 



POETICAL PORTRAITS S5 

I'M GROWING OLD. 

I'm growing old, as day by day 
My mortal life speeds on its way, 
And, though my tears unbidden flow, 
To think, alas, it must be so ; 
Through summer's heat and winter's cold 
I read the truth — I'm growing old. 

I'm growing old ; the flight- of years 
Each year more startlingly appears; 
My birthdays nearer seem to be. 
Their hurried passing w^arning me 
That life's brief tale will soon be told 
And I shall be infirm and old. 

I'm growing old, my hair grows thin, 
And threads of silver creeping in 
Give warning of the flight of time ; 
Marks well the loss of manhood's prime. 
Speaks out in language stern and cold — 
Remember you are growing old. 

I'm growing old, deep carelines trace 
Life's checkered history on my face. 
Telling of days when life was fair, 
Telling of days dark gloomed with care. 
Telling of loves and hates grown cold 
In heart once young, now growing old. 

I'm growling old ! The friends of youth, 
Endeared by innocence and truth. 
Have one by one their farewells said. 



36 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

Joining the army of the dead — 
Resting beneath the damp earth mold 
Where none are weary, none grow old. 

I'm growing old, my sight grows dim, 
My strength abates ; a spectre grim 
Waves snowy arms from distant shore 
And seems to beckon and implore 
As if it would my life enfold 
And keep it safe from growing old. 

A PATHETIC INCIDENT. 

Died in our Christian village, 

A man in his manhood's prime. 
Like a plant prematurely blighted 

And wither'd before its time. 
One day in the public places 

As a sorrowful looker on, 
The next from the paths of the living 

His feet had forever gone. 

Died in our Christian village, 

With its churches so grand and fair, 
With the incense forever rising 

In love and praise and prayer; 
With members devoutly kneeling 

And praying God's kingdom to come, 
Then dead to all human feeling, 

Ignoring the curse of rum. 

Died m our Christian village. 
Died did I say? Yes and no; 

I hold that the victim was murdered, 
Death followed the rum poison'd blow ; 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 57 



You lay it of course to his drinking 

Persistently day after day — 
Ah ! 'tis easy to see that he stumbled, 

But who rolled the stones in his way ? 

Yes, he died in our Christian village 

And now in the churchyard fair 
Let the kind-hearted give of their substance 

To put up a monument there ; 
And write on the beautiful marble 

This truthful account of his fate : 
Here lies a man that was tempted 

And killed bv a law of the state. 



58 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

NEWTON FALLS AND BENSON MINES. 

Where the Northern Adirondacks stand in all their state- 
ly pride, 

And their sloping summits rise like towering walls ; 

Where the forest and the river long have slumbered side 
by side, 

Stands the little frontier town of Newton Falls. 

Years ago the author wandered down the banks of this 

bright stream, 
Where the sportsman often roamed with rod and gun, 
But the future of this section, he had not the faintest 

dream. 
As he caught the speckled beauties one by one. 

Near to Nature's heart he listened to her tender lullabys, 

As they echoed low and sweet through leafy halls ; 

All around him peaceful forests, all above him cloudless 

skies. 
But no sight or sound or trace of Newton Falls. 

Now capital and labor have their giant arms entwined 

In a union that is permanent and strong ; 

And the motive power engendered by the union thus 

combined 
Moves the mighty wheels of progress right along. 

A pulp and lumber company built the village and the 

mills. 
Putting in approved machinery small and great. 
The spruces, hemlocks, maples grew abundant on the 

hills. 
And a railroad came to carry out the freight. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 59 

A hotel was soon erected on a generous modern plan, 
Which for elegance and comfort is complete, 
And the very best provisions to supply the outer man. 
Are served by graceful waiters fresh and neat. 

Though no church adorns the village with its steeple to- 
ward the skies, 

Yet the word of God is preached in open halls ; 

And the preachers point the people to the life that never 
dies, 

In the truth endorsing town of Newton Falls. 

Here the alcoholic demon is forever kept at bay. 
Though his baffled rage the timid heart appalls ; 
Prohibition is the watchword, and it has the right of way 
In the temperance loving town of Newton Falls. 

Here the sunny sun-browned workmen come from places 

far and near. 
For its here it seems to them that duty calls ; 
And they work for living wages and they work with 

hearty cheer. 
In this enterprising town of Newton Falls. 

And thus capital and labor walk together hand in hand, 
Barring out the unseemly sight of strikes and brawls ; 
Each dependent on the other they make no unjust de- 
mand, 
In this pretty, peaceful town of Newton Falls. 

In the sultry days of summer from the cities' toil and 

strife, 
Parties come and make their pleasant annual calls ; 
And they get a rest from labor and a truer sense of life, 
In this care-forgetting tov/n of Newton Falls. 



6o POETICAL PORTRAITS 



Just below this Newton hamlet as you face the south and 

west, 
Where once grew the lordly tamaracks and pines, 
Where the red deer loved to wander and the eagle built 

his nest, 
There is now the business town of Benson Mines. 



Here the Little river ore-bed, and large tracts of timber 

land. 
Were the magnets, which attracted people in, 
For the prospect of a fortune we can fully understand 
Was the same with them as it had ever been. 



In this grand balsamic region with pure water and pure 

air, 
People know but very little of disease, 
For it's possible with exercise and taking proper care 
To be about as healthy as you please. 



Still as accidents may happen when you least expect them 

to, 
Dr. Wiltse keeps an office on Broadway ; 
And if arms and limbs get broken, the proper thing to do 
Is to send for him without the least delay. 

In this new commercial center, where the wheels of busi- 
ness hum 

Just as constant as the tide-wave ebbs and flows, 

They have built two pretty churches where the rich and 
poor may come, 

And find healing for their mortal griefs and woes. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 6i 



Then their large and handsome schoolhouse is a credit 

to the town, 
For learning ever strengthens and refines ; 
And it shows the people prize it, when they pay their 

money dov/n, 
For the cause of education at the Mines. 

May the work of church and schoolhouse ever prosper 

and abide, 
While the work of evil steadily declines ; 
May the buds of virtue blossom where the weeds of vice 

have died, 
To the everlasting praise of Benson Mines. 

But before my muse gets weary, I must take a backward 

look — 
Retrospection shows a hunter's camping ground — 
With bark shanties through the forest close beside a 

spring or brook. 
Where the clear, cold sparkling water might be found. 

Here the Youngs, Partlows and Greenfields hunted pan- 
ther, wolf and bear. 

For right well they understood their tracks and signs ; 

And full oft those hardy hunters tracked the wild beast 
to his lair 

On the site of w^hat was later Benson Mines. 

Oh ! the tales of wild adventure which those stalwart hun- 
ters told 

Of their hand-to-hand encounters 'neath the pines 

Would unnerve a timid person — make his very blood 
run cold, 

With the thought of tragic scenes at Benson Mines. 



62 POETICAL PORTRAITS 



Now those stirring scenes are ended, for the forest is laid 

low, 
And the clearings and the buildings take its place ; 
We can see the steam clouds rising, we can hear the 

whistles blow. 
And the hunter is no longer in the race. 

But it's time to end my poem, and I will not trespass 

more. 
For I want your kindly judgment on these lines. 
So I'll close by merely saying what I've otten thought 

before, 
Success to Newton Falls and Benson Mines. 

WANAKFNA. 

April, 1903. 

What little town of frontier fame 
Called by a pretty Indian name 
Is building where the Inlet flows, 
And day by day more homelike grows? 
Wanakena. 

What little town whose railroad lines 
Connect all right with Benson Mines, 
So passengers can ride at ease 
And view the scenery as they please ? 
Wanakena. 

What town with buildings new and neat, 
Though minus graded road or street, 
Will soon have them arranged complete, 
As prosperous as the county seat? 
Wanakena. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 63 



What town whose people's sense of right 
Prompt them to treat the stranger white, 
And by their words and acts express 
The spirit of true manhness? 
Wanakena. 

What httle town deserves success 
For struggUng in the wilderness 
Its wealth and beauty to disclose 
And make it blossom like the rose? 
Wanakena. 

SITTING AROUND. 

Through the mellow haze of the warm spring days, 

When earth is vocal with songs of praise, 

When flowers are budding and blooming fair, 

And all is activity everywhere, 

I hear the hum and the droning sound 

Where a group of idlers are sitting around. 

Sitting around while the toilers toil. 

While the farmer cultivates the soil ; 

While the blacksmith is striking resounding blows, 

When the anvil quivers and forge fire glows ; 

Where life is a thrill with its ceaseless round. 

Shame on the men who are sitting around. 

Sitting around while homes are bare, 

And loved ones with little to eat or wear 

Are dreaming sad dreams of days agone. 

While time and tide are both drifting on 

And the group in the big chairs is still to be found, 

Languidly, lazily sitting around. 



64 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

What is the attraction, O pray tell me what, 
That calls them so oft to this magical spot, 
Which hardens their hearts to the thought of home 
And the loved ones waiting for them to come. 
Is it pleasure or profit or wisdom profound 
That inclines them so much to be sitting around? 

Is it tasteful surroundings or sense of repose 

Which attracts them and holds them as life ebbs and 

flows ? 
Whatever it is, it is powerful I know 
And the lesson it teaches is practical too ; 
'Tis a poor lot of men that today can be found 
With nothing to do except sitting around. 

DAY AND NIGHT. 
A Character Poem. 
DAY. 

Good evening my dark robed sister ! 

They tell me your name is Night ; 
My name is Day, and so, sister, 

You see I am robed in white. 

I came to the earth this morning 

Just as you were going away, 
I am pleased to make your acquaintance 

Though I have but a short time to stay. 

NIGHT. 

I am sure I am only too happy 
To meet with you thus. Sister Day, 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 65 

I have known you by name for a long time 
And I hear you are cheerful and gay. 

'Tis said that you bask in the sunshine, 

In country, in hamlet and town, 
Giving smiles and good cheer to all people, 

But never a murmur or frown. 

DAY. 

I fear then that my reputation 

Will not stand a critical test ; 
I am not always sunny and cheerful, 

I murmur sometimes like the rest. 

The truth is I mean to be sunny 

And send forth a radiant light. 
And would were it not for the shadows 

That veil the bright sun from my sight ! 

They darken about me so sudden. 

So sullen, so gloomy and grey ; 
Then people find fault with me for it. 

It just takes my courage away. 

Such a dark day, or cold day, or wet day. 
Oh ! the chill of their censure and frown ; 

All in all it is perfectly dreadful — 
Do you wonder I'm often cast down? 

NIGHT. 

Dear sister, please stop this repining. 
Your trouble I plainly can see ; 



66 POETICAL PORTRAITS 



Tarry here in the twiHght a moment 
And learn a short lesson from me. 

I was born for the darkness and shadow, 

Was given no choice in my lot ; 
Night was my name and my nature 

Whether it pleased me or not. 

So I made up my mind to be grateful 
For whatever light sHould be mine, 

And Oh ! I remember my rapture 

When one little star chanced to shine. 

And as the dark shadows receded 
And myriads of stars came in view, 

And I saw bending lovingly over 
A star spangled heaven of blue, 

And lo ! in the east, smiling faintly 

The beautiful face of the moon, 
I worshipped the Infinite Giver 

For such an unspeakable boon. 

And when the dark clouds with their shadows 
Veiled all of their glory from sight. 

My heart kept a joyful thanksgiving 
And patiently waited for light. 

DAY. 

Dear sister, I fervently thank you. 

Although you have humbled my pride; 

You have taught me a much needed lesson 
And strengthened my courage beside. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 67 



My station in life is above you, 

My pathway much brighter I know, 

My blessings your own have outnumbered, 
Our Father hath ordered it so. 

You walk through a lifetime of shadow. 
Seeing naught but the stars and the moon 

My face is illumed by the morning, 
I bask in the splendors of noon. 

I watch the white sails in the harbor, 
I watch the lone ships on the sea. 

And afar o'er the mountains and valleys 
There is brightness and beauty for me. 

I witness the grand transformation 
Of forest and field in the spring, 

When nature portrays resurrection 
And joybells in ecstacy ring. 

And yet I have murmured so often 
At the sight of a cloud settling down. 

And suffered its shadow to darken 
The light of my face with a frown. 

Dear sister, right here in your presence 

I would my ingratitude own, 
My pride and my selfish ambition. 

For which I would gladly atone. 

NIGHT. 

Well, dear one, I know you are pardoned, 
God's mercy is free for us all ; 



6S POETICAL PORTRAITS 



Were it not so, how often the strongest 
Would falter and stumble and fall. 



But let me suggest to you further 

A mission which you may fulfill, 
A glorious mission, my sister, 

In line with the Infinite will. 

I have heard through the sweep of the ages, 
'Bove the pathways where mortals have trod, 

The refrain of a pitiful murmur 

'Gainst the wisdom and goodness of God, 

From many whose bright cups of blessing 
Would fill to the brim and o'erflow, 

Were it not for some treasure withholden 
Which they secretly coveted so. 

Or, it may be the loss of some idol 
Which they as a god had enshrined, 

Forgetting the good God of heaven. 
Our Father so loving and kind. 

Go tell to such mortals my story ; 

Yes, say that the night, dark and lone. 
Thanks God for all light, and all blessing, 

That into her face ever shone. 

Tell them to be hopeful and trustful, 
Whatever their patience may try ; 

And now, my dear sister, God bless you ; 
I wish you success, and good bye. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 6g 



THE FIRST ROBIN. 

Today I saw a robin 

And heard him sweetly sing, 
But could not help but pity 

The foolish little thing; 
To leave the sunny Southland 

For land of frost and snow 
Before the mayflowers blossom 

Or dainty violets blow. 

And yet I gladly listened 

To hear the robin sing, 
For was it not a prophet 

And harbinger of spring? 
And, if an early comer 

To land of frost and snow, 
He could not tarry longer 

Because he loved it so. 

May heaven bless the birdie, 

So bold and venturesome, 
And keep his feet from freezing 

'Til warmer days shall come ; 
'Til balmy April showers 

Shall melt the ice and snow, 
And far and near the mayflowers 

And dainty violets blow. 

ODE TO THE MOON. 

Queen of the starry night, 
Reflecting borrowed light, 
Yet beautiful and bright. 
Shine on. 



70 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

O'er mountains grand and tall, 
Shrouded in snowy pall, 
Where silence ruleth all, 
Shine on. 

O'er leagues of crystal snow. 
Where winter's breezes blow, 
O'er plain and moorland low, 
Shine on. 

Where forests vast and dim, 
Trembling in leaf and limb, 
Murmur a ceaseless hymn, 
Shine on. 

I Where streamlets blithe and free 
In full toned harmony 
Flow singing toward the sea. 
Shine on. 

O'er cities grand and fair. 
Where high and lowly are, 
And o'er the ocean far. 
Shine on. 

Where tombstones glisten white, 
Bathed in thy silver light, 
Through all the silent night, 
Shine on. 

Where e'er our steps may roam. 
However far from home. 
Attended or alone, 
Shine on. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 71 

Blessings on thy sweet face, 
In all the realms of space 
Naught can usurp thy place, 
Dear Moon. 

A SIN OF OMISSION. 

Why not oft'ner write to the dear ones 

Whose faces we seldom see, 
A letter would give them such pleasure, 

A few lines from you or from me ; 
The weeks into months are fast turning. 

The months into years roll on. 
And we are neglecting the letters 

To Bessie or Susie or John, 

Or father, or mother, or uncle, 

Or aunt, or cousin, or friend. 
While they are so anxious to get them, 

And we are so slow to send. 
Consider our foolish excuses ; 

"O, I can't write very well," 
Or, "I am so busy with housework," 

Or, **I am a poor hand to spell." 

When we get a letter, how^ eager 

We hasten to break the seal : 
Our eagerness fully revealing 

How glad and how grateful we feel. 
How hastily then we review it. 

Then read it and read it, until 
Its contents are fairly committed 

And we can repeat them at will. 



72 POETICAL PORTRAITS 



One simple request in the letter 

We promise ourselves to heed : 
"Please write soon," oh ! yes, we will do it, 

Never in vain shall they plead ; 
But 'tis vain, for truly we write not 

And soon we forget the request, 
Never dreaming how much we are grieving 

The friend that was dearest and best. 



We may not be able to lavish 

On loved ones our silver or gold, 
And the promptings of love and affection 

We often are forced to withhold. 
But a message of love to the absent 

Will cost but a trifle to send. 
Poorly spelled, poorly written, it may be, 

But still just as dear to a friend. 

Some day as we glance at the paper 

We may read that our friend has died. 
The friend whose legitimate favor. 

The last one, perhaps, we denied. 
O, let us be prompt in the future 

And write to our friends while we may, 
And write good long letters to comfort 

The hearts that are lonely today. 

COME UP TO THE MOUNT OF GOD. 

A summons divine the Prophet heard 
As he toiled on Sinai's plain — 

Supreme command from the Living Word 
To Israel's leader came ; 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 73 

Give over the people to Aaron and Hur, 

Let them hold the guiding rod ; 
Come thou alone to the unseen throne 

Far up in the Mount of God. 

There is glory here on the holy mount 

That will cause your face to shine ; 
There is water of life from the opened fount, 

There is joy and peace divine ; 
You have tarried long in the valley of death 

Where earth born mortals plod ; 
Waste not another passing breath, 

Haste up to the Mount of God. 

O, soul in the shadow of sin and death 

From the path of life astray, 
Hear what the angel of mercy saith, 

Come back to the shining way. 
So long where darkness and night doth brood, 

Akin to the soulless clod, 
A message has come from the changeless good, 

Come up to the Mount of God. 

Leave far behind thee the tents of men 

And dare to go on alone, 
Though hidden awhile from mortal ken 

God ever keepeth His own. 
The angels of blessing have gone before, 

'Tis safe where their feet have trod. 
Though faint and weary and sad and sore, 

Come up to the Mount of God. 



74- POETICAL PORTRAITS 

I WONDER. 

I wonder if when all my years are fled 

And I lie down upon my dying bed 

If I shall greatly dread to say farewell 

To all that I have known and loved so well — 

The starry sky so strangely beautiful, 

The sweet faced moon, queen of the shining scroll, 

The summer day dawns grand beyond compare, 

The golden noons and eves divinely fair ; 

The flowers so fragrant and the wild bird's song. 

The streamlets murmur as it flowed along, 

Through meadows fair 'neath gnarled and leafy trees 

Whose swaying branches kissed the passing breeze. 

I wonder if my friends in that last hour 

W^ould stay my spirit if they had the power, 

And if all powerless to prevent its flight 

My palid face would hush their laughter light, 

And bring perchance a pang of deep regret 

To some dear face with grief's hot tear drops wet ; 

And would the efforts of my feeble pen 

Be called to mind and treasured fondly then, 

Or freely added to affections store 

Because the hand that wrote could write no more, 

I wonder, but the mystery deepens still, 
Death holds the answers and no human will, 
Or power, or might, can break the mystic seal ; 
And in advance its shadowy scenes reveal. 
It will not matter, when my end is near. 
How many shed for me the parting tear. 
Or whether words express a vain regret 
That mv life's sun should thus in darkness set. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 75 

This all my prayer that I that hour may be 
Sweetly composed and from earth longings free, 
Saying when my earthly race is fully run 
''Farewell, dear earth, dear Lord, Thy will be done." 

CHRISTIAN ENDEAVOR THOUGHTS. 

Since I have joined the Endeavor band 
And given to it my heart and hand. 
The question often comes to me. 
Now, how can I most useful be. 

I think *tis better to be used 
Than make this plea, have me excused ; 
For workers God has sympathy 
And so I would a worker be. 

I hope, and as I hope, I pray 
That we may labor every day 
In harmony with His sweet will 

Who doth our cups of blessing fill. 

■I 

As spring, the seed time of the year 
Has come to us with life and cheer. 
With springing blades and opening flowers, 
With sunshine and with genial showers. 

With misty eves and dewy dawns. 
And birds that sing their summer songs, 
A part of nature's minstrelsy 
To furnish us with music free. 

O may we ever bear in mind 
That we may many lessons find 



y6 POETICAL PORTRAITS 



In this best season of the year 
To make our paths of duty clear. 

The seed we sow in Hfe's fair spring 
Will have its time of blossoming, 
Then grow at length to ripened grain, 
A harvest growth of joy or pain, 

According to the seed we sow ; 
Surely the fact we all should know 
And sow our sweetest and our best, 
And to God's mercy leave the rest. 

A kindly word, a Christly deed 
To those who for our pity plead, 
Forgotten soon as said or done. 
But noted by the All Knowing One, 

Like bread upon the waters cast 

May come to us when earth is past. 

Transformed into a jewel rare 

To make life's crown more bright and fair. 

THE SALOON. 



Down where the toughs are drinking 
And the red beer flows free, 

Down where the glasses clinking. 
Speaks of wild revelry. 

Down where the toughs are singing 

Snatches of ribald song. 
And curse on curse out-ringing. 

Tells of a godless throng. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 77 



Is that a place to gather 

When the red sun goes down 
And darkness droopeth gently 

Over the silent town? 

No, shun that place forever, 

For oh ! the dead are there, 
And the foaming beer can never 

With love and life compare. 

Oh ! shun that place forever, 

'Tis a desperate haunt of sin 
Where they take your wealth and manhood, 

When once you have entered in. 

Where all bad passions within you 
From their foundations are stirred. 

And manlike or Godlike emotion 
Is scoffed at as weak aind absurd. 

Then go not anear it, my brother. 
Better enter a rattlesnake's den ; 

Let villains or fools be its patrons, 
But surely not sensible men. 

DIVINE DELIVERANCE. 

All the night had Christ's disciples 

Rowed upon dark Gallilee, 
And the grey dawn found them toiling, 

Helpless on the stormy sea. 

Meanwhile Christ upon a mountain 
Spent the same dark hours in prayer, 



y8 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

Knowing the while that death and danger 
Walked unhindered everywhere. 

Now, as day is slowly breaking 

Over land and over sea, 
And the hearts of the disciples 

Fail in hopeless misery, 

There appears a form before them 
Walking o'er the treacherous wave. 

And they cried out, 'tis a spirit, 
We shall find a watery grave. 

But straightway the faithful Master 
Spake and said, "Be of good cheer ; 

It is I, be not affrighted — 

There is now^ no cause to fear." 

Peter said if it be thou. Lord, 
Speak and bid me come to thee ; 

And the Master answered quickly 
Saying to Peter, "come to Me." 

Then upon the angry waters 
Peter ventured undismayed. 

But the heaving, tossing billows 
Made him once again afraid. 

Down he sank and wild with terror 
He just cried out, "Lord save me," 

And the outstretched hand of Jesus 
Saved him from the hungry sea. 

"O, thou faithless one," said Jesus, 

"Wherefore did'st thou fear and doubt," 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 79 



But his trembling lips were silent, 
As at once he turned about. 

And they walked into the vessel 
As the wind ceased its complaint, 

And they worshipped Him rejoicing 
With their hearts no longer faint. 

O, Thou Christ of earth and heaven, 
We are out upon life's sea, 

And the darkness deepens round us, 
And the winds blow threateningly. 

In Thine infinite compassion. 
Come to us we humbly pray ; 

Walk with us across the billows. 
Hush the winds and waves today. 

Chide us if thou wilt, but save us, 
Hold us by Thy loving hand 

Till we reach the peaceful harbor 
Of Thy precious promised land. 



8o POETICAL PORTRAITS 

ON BEING ASKED BY MISS EMMA W. TO 
WRITE HER A POEM. 

July I, 1899. 

You ask me to write you a poem, 
But really I shrink from the task, 

Although it would be a great pleasure 
To give you whatever you ask. 

In the first place my genius is faulty. 
But the greatest excuse that I plead 

Is this, that your own life, friend Emma, 
Is about all the poem you need. 

I have read a few stanzas, and truly, 

Its spirit I greatly admire ; 
If the world were but full of such poems, 

Of reading I never should tire. 

May your life when the last line is written 
Be a volume all fragrant and bright, 

For friends to peruse when death's fingers 
Have hidden its author from sight. 

THE CLOUDS RETURN AFTER THE RAIN. 

I am sad today, for my thoughts alway 

Fall into this gloomy refrain, 
My pathway of life is through toiling and strife, 

For the clouds return after the rain. 

I could bide the showers, if in after hours 

The sunshine would smile again, 
But this is my fate that early or late 

The clouds return after the rain. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 8i 



So let others be gay, and glad while they may, 
I would not their gladness restrain, 

But I know as for me, it never can be. 
For the clouds return after the rain. 



Poor heart, be thou still, why wish thee, or will, 

Since wishing and willing are vain? 
Toil on through the tears, of the careburdened years. 

And the clouds that come after the rain. 



It may be at last when the shadows are past 

And we shall lost Eden regain. 
On that bright balmy shore that the clouds nevermore 

Will return again after the rain. 

AN EVENING REVERIE. 

Nine o'clock, the darkness reigneth, 
While the weird night wind complaineth. 

And I sit 
Where the cheerful lamps are burning. 
All the shadows backward turning. 
Listening to the winds complaining. 
Silent sit, my thoughts restraining, 

Though they flit 
Through the dreams, my spirit dreameth, 
Till to my wrapt soul it seemeth 

That the past. 
Marching in review before me, 
Throws a veil of sadness o'er me, 
Which no hopeful word can brighten. 
Which no thoughtful hand can lighten. 



82 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

Now these memories sad are fleeing, 
And the mystery of being 

Takes their place ; 
And I wonder is it treason 
Thus to sit and calmly reason 
On the sinful, sad condition, 
On the weak and vain ambition. 
On the constant mute petition 

Of our race. 
Like a shadow that declineth, 
Like a cloud-dimmed star man shineth 

For a day — 
'Til the night around him falling 
And a voice beyond him calling. 
Suddenly life's chord is riven 
And the consciousness is driven 

From the clay. 
Into the unknown he goeth 
Nor of the great future knoweth, 

It may be ; 
All his trustful spirit painted, 
Beautious, blissful, sacred, sainted. 
It may be that death will sever 
Men from life and love forever — 

Few agree. 
Then why practice self denial. 
Bearing bravely every trial 

That we meet? 
Why not live alone for pleasure, 
Seeking in abundant measure 
Earthly joy and earthly pleasure, 

Sip the sweet — 
All the bitterness ignoring. 
All the gathering and the storing 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 83 



For a future so uncertain, 
Far beyond death's sable curtain, 
Incomplete. 



Thus did doubt repine and cavil, 
Then there fell an unseen gavel — 

Silence reigned, 
Soon to be abruptly broken 
By these words distinctly spoken, 
"Though you reason on forever 
You can solve the problem never — 

What is gained? 
Man we know seems truly mortal, 
And he stands before a portal, 

Dim and strange ; 
Subject here of joy and sorrow 
He may live or die tomorrow. 

But the change, 
Though it seems in mystery shrouded, 
Is not left by doubt beclouded ; 

God has said, 
Though in mortal weakness dying, 
Andf within the grave low lying. 
Yet his prison shall be shaken, 
Yet a voice his sleep shall waken 

And the dead. 
As on earth their lives accorded 
Shall so justly be rewarded 
That no soul may murmer ever 
'Gainst the goodness of the Giver ; 
Better then be up and doing 
Paths of peace and love persuing 

Every day. 



84- POETICAL PORTRAITS 

By an angel power defended 
'Til life's humble mission ended, 
Heaven's sweet mysteries beholding, 
We shall see God's plans unfolding, 

And the way 
Once so dark to mortal vision, 
Luminous with light elysian.'' 



SONG— TEMPERANCE CRANKS. 

The world today is full of cranks, 

I'm sure I don't know why, 
Yet on the thronging paths of life 

We often pass them by. 
But out of all the multitudes 

Of high or low degree 
The jolly temperance crank, my boy, 

Is just the crank for me. 

CHORUS : 

Then show them ever due respect 

Wherever they may be, 
For the solid ranks of temperance cranks 

Are just the cranks for me. 

These cranks are turning night and day 

With all their might and main. 
And when the temperance light gets dim 

They turn it up again. 
Because they hold the light of truth 

Where all the world may see — 
These jolly Prohibition cranks 

Are just the cranks for me. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 85 



CHO. — Then show them ever, etc. 

For God and home and native land 

They freely sacrifice; 
They work with open heart and hand 

And never wear disguise. 
They stand up straight for principle 

Whatever the cost may be, 
And that is why these temperance cranks 

Are just the cranks for me. 

CHO. — Then show them ever, etc. 

King Alcohol upon his throne 

May tremble when he sees 
These cranks who dare to stand alone 

Go down upon their knees ; 
Since they believe in prayers and votes, 

They pray and vote you see, 
And that is why these temperance cranks 

Are just the cranks for me. 

CHO. — Then show them ever, etc. 
RETOUCHED. 

I brought to the artist a picture 

Faded and dim and old. 
But, because of precious memories. 

Dearer to me than gold. 
"O, artist tell me, hast thou skill 

These faded lines again to fill." 



86 POETICAL PORTRAITS 



The artist gazed for a moment, 

Then kindly he repHed, 
"I will lavish my skill upon it 

And think you'll be satisfied ;" 
Then given to the artist's care 

I turned away and left it there. 

At length my picture was finished 

And sent to my address, 
Fully restored by the artist 

To its former loveliness — 
All missing points he had supplied 

I could not but be satisfied. 

God gave me a soul as perfect 

As his skill could create, 
Peerless, and sinless, and deathless — 

A glorious estate. 
Alas, I proved a wayward child 

And soon my sinless soul defiled. 

The years went by, and its beauty 
Was marred and spoiled by sin, 

Until to my cherished picture 
It truly seemed akin. 

Oh ! Thou who formed the souls of men, 
Canst Thou restore my soul again? 

One moment He looked upon me, 

Then tenderly replied, 
"If you will but fully trust me. 

You shall be satisfied." 
There is no limit to my skill. 

All faded traces I can fill. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 87 



'Twas easy enough with the picture 

To trust in superior skill, 
But my soul, it was hard to yield it, 

So strong was my pride and will ; 
But his love soon conquered my will and pride, 

And I joyfully laid them both aside. 

Ah ! wonderful heavenlv artist. 
Since Thou hast assumed control, 

Fair outlines of grace and beauty \ 

Thou art giving each day to my soul — 

Thy perfect likeness once supplied 
I know I shall be satisfied. 

GREETING TO COUNTY LODGE, I. O. G. T. 

From the Adirondack region, where the mountains, 

grand and tall, 
Stand like grim and faithful sentinels keeping watch 

above us all. 
From the famous Little River where the giant hemlocks 

grow, 
And the pine and spruces murmur as the north wind 

drifts the snow. 

Where the red deer love to wander, when the stars shine 
over head, 

And the wakeful owl gives warning, as he hears the hun- 
ter's tread. 

We have come to greet our brothers and our sisters, true 
and tried. 

Comrades in the temperance army, altho scattered far 
and wide. 



88 POETICAL PORTRAITS 



'Tis with pleasure that we greet you, for we fully realize 
That Good Templars are united by the holiest of ties ; 
By the pledges we have taken, by the cause for which we 

plead, 
We are one in thought and action, we are one in word 

and deed. 

By one common foe confronted, creeds and isms we ig- 
nore. 

Sinking all for home and country and the God whom 
we adore; 

Firm as our eternal mountains, we have pledged our- 
selves to stand, 

'Til the demon of intemperance shall be driven from our 
land. 

'Til the homes by rum imperilled shall be free from its 
sad blight, 

And the shadows round them deepening scattered by the 
morning light ; 

'Til the loved ones now in bondage to the power of alco- 
hol 

Shall be freed from its dominion, never more to drink or 
fall. 

Veteran Templars of St. Lawrence, are we doing all we 
can 

For the cause we love so dearly, for our fallen fellow 
man? 

There are many more waste places that we ought to cul- 
tivate — • 

Comrades, let us hasten to them ; by and by 'twill be too 
late. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 89 

There are drinking men around us, vainly waiting to be 

free, 
Waiting for a Templar's welcome, just a word from you 

or me. 
Are we not our brother's keeper? Yes, and we are kith 

and kin 
To the poor degraded drunkard, stained and bruised by 

drink and sin. 

Man can have no nobler mission than to us the Lord 

hath given, 
Bringing rum's degraded victims back to friends and 

home and heaven; 
Let us labor in the spirit of the loving Christ of yore, 
Who unto the weak and tempted sweetly said, "Go, sin 

no more." 

GOD'S WILL AND WAY. 

I cannot help but approve His wisdom, 

His goodness all my senses thrill ; 
Day by day He bestows His blessings. 

And yet I fail in doing His will. 

Perhaps you think it a weak confession — 

I know it is, but it is true — 
His will is right, I can see it clearly, 

And yet it seemeth so hard to do. 

The fact is I am intensely human. 

And human nature is so strong 
It overthrows my good resolutions. 

And the first thing I know I am going wrong. 



po POETICAL PORTRAITS 



A spotless life is indeed a treasure 

But oh ! we find it so very rare — 
Fruit of the spirit in fullest measure, 

With never, ah, never an ugly tare. 

For such a life I have had deep yearning, 
Have watched and prayed but all in vain — 

My will was weak and I found it turning 
Fondly, swiftly to earth again. 

I hear His order for full surrender, 

I make it meekly as other men, 
But find in service that I should render 

I am a rebel in arms again. 

I do not murmur against the Giver, 
His will and ways are right and just, 

But He is holy, first, last, forever ; 
He is spirit and I am. dust. 

To you who have climbed to your high places, 

Nor ever pity those below. 
Who revel in fancied gifts and graces 

Which only the wise and good may know. 

Some time the light of His truth may reach you, 
Shining inwardly through and through, 

And sad experience sternly teach you 
Some lessons you never, never knew. 

If not, I fear when you reach life's portal 
And find thief, beggar and magdalen, 

Robed and crowned and become immortal, 
Saved for ever from taint of sin, 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 91 

With many more that on earth were fated 

To grovel and grapple helplessly, 
Some whom you sneered at, jeered at, and hated, 

Too low and vile for your company, 

You will be sadly, sorely confounded 
And may even miss your chosen place. 

In that infinite mercy abounded. 

And these poor outcasts were saved by grace ! 

ISAIAH 53-6. 

All we like sheep have gone astray, 
Turning every one to his own way. 

And our iniquity 
The Lord upon himself hath laid ; 
His precious blood our debt hath paid 
And full and free atonement made 

From sin to set us free. 

No more need we be slaves to fear 
Nor wander in a desert drear, 

Our pardon Christ hath given. 
Wide open swings the golden door. 
Welcome to all both rich and poor. 
Welcome, though scanty be thy store. 

To harmony and heaven. 

THE OFFICE SOUGHT THE MAN. 

The times are very different now 

From what they used to be. 
And men who wear the silver hair • 

The change can plainly see. 



92 POETICAL PORTRAITS 



The officeseeker was unknown, 
His actions none could scan, 

For long ago 'twas true, you know, 
The office sougfht the man. 



'fc>' 



The people wanted officers 

As faithful as the sun 
To do the business for them then 

Just as it should be done. 
A volunteer for office ! why, 

Imagine it, who can? 
'Twould be no use for one to try — 

The office sought the man. 

But now, what with "official rings," 

And "deals" and "bribes" and "cUques," 
We see strange sights and hear strange things 

In modern politics. 
The third class politician rides. 

Bows, shakes and buttonholes, 
Beseeching all, both great and small, ^ 

To help him at the polls. 

O, would old time might backward turn 

To happy days of yore, 
When principle instead of cheek 

Would oftener get the floor ; 
When right instead of might was seen 

In that diviner plan. 
When a man sought not the office, 

But the office sought a man. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS pj 

I HAD RATHER BE GOOD THAN GREAT. 

There are many men in the world today 

CHmbing the ladder of fame 
By the deeds they do and the words they say, 

Earning a deathless name. 
But I am not anxious enough to rise, 

To struggle early and late ; 
I never envy the wealthy or wise — 

I had rather be good than great. 

The gold and silver of earth we know 

Is liable to corrode, 
And a kingly crown would weigh us down 

With a heavy and tiresome load. 
Give me a cheerful and honest heart 

And health for my estate, 
I ask no better or brighter part — 

I had rather be good than great. 

It is not having, but being, that tells 

The story of life and love ; 
It is goodness that touches the sweet joy bells 

That find their echo above. 
So let others labor for wealth or fame 

And for the world's glory wait. 
It's little I care for its praise or blame — 

I had rather be good than great. 

THE BURNING QUESTION. 

What shall we do with the traffic, 

The traffic in whiskey and beer? 
The question is up for discussion, 

And being discussed far and near. 



9^ POETICAL PORTRAITS 

Some good men and wise men are talking 
Just now of a wonderful plan, 

A sort of compromise measure 
To try for a while if they can. 

In regard to the selling of liquor, 

Which we always thought a disgrace, 

They propose that the town shall assume it, 
And they claim that will alter the case. 

Instead of a citizen making 

Some profit on whiskey or beer, 

And selling too much for the credit 
Of those who are residents here. 

They say, let the town make some money 

To help pay its taxes, and so 
Get something out of the traffic 

To offset its burden of woe. 

Then, too, under these regulations 
No minor his liquor could buy, 

And every old guzzler and toper 
Would certainly have to go dry. 

The town would appoint a committee 
Of some good respectable men 

To see to the business entirely 
And give a report now and then. 

The best man in town would be chosen 

To sell it to A, B or C, 
And make sure that no man got drunker 

Than a gentleman ought to be. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 95 



ANTICIPATION. 

When the apple blooms are drifting from the orchards 
fair and white, 
Falling like a snowy curtain all around, 
When the air is filled with fragrance and the summer 
days are bright. 
And nature with an emerald wreath is crowned. 

Then existence is a blessing, spite of all the mad'ning din, 
That oppresses, and distresses us so sore, 

For it builds a sacred temple where the soul may enter 
in, 
And be safe until the fiercest storm is o'er. 

In the freshness of the springtime, in the fragrance of its 
breath, 
In the bloom of early summer we can see 
T^hat which sweetens everv^ sorrow and illumes the gloom 
of death 
With the thought of life and beauty yet to be. 

Oh 'tis precious to remember as the days so swiftly fly 
Rounding out the mystic circle of the years. 

That they only bring us nearer to that golden by and by, 
Where the eye shall never smile through blinding tears. 

When the feet will never weary and the heart will never 
ache. 
When the blossom and the fruitag*e are allied 
On that bright and balmy shore where the silver ripples 
break 
And the longing of the soul is satisfied. 



96 POETICAL PORTRAITS 



A RAY OF LIGHT. 

I used to wonder that, with so much preachinp;-, 
So many pray'rs that all conditions fitted, 

A missionary spirit far and wide outreaching, 
That all mankind to God had not submitted. 

It seemed so strange that, with so many reapers, 
Bright golden sheaves should all ungathered lie ; 

That earth should hold so many careless sleepers, 
While time on rapid wing went hurrying by. 

But now *tis plain — I can no longer wonder 
Why speeds "Salvation's car" so very slow, 

Nor why, in spite of all our pulpit thunder, 
Sin does not meet its final overthrow. 

The reason is, and mark it well, my brother. 
We are too much in love with sect and creed ; 

The royal beauty of the Cross we cover, 
And hold our church to be the light indeed. 

If we would see the glorious morning breaking, 
In dawn of peace, like free, good-will's bright gem, 

We must arise, and, creed and name forsaking, 
Build God a temple on the ruins of them. 

We must unite and use God's own sweet leaven 
To leaven earth's lump of ignorance and sin, 

And with one Faith, one Church, one Lord, one Heaven, 
Work with a will to bring poor wanderers in. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 97 

RECOLLECTIONS. 

No artist's skill have I to sketch 

The scenes of bygone years, 
And yet on memory's magic walls, 
Where shine and shadow o'er them falls, 

One picture oft appears. 

The old brown school-house on the green 

Still dawns on memory's sight, 
Brightened with morning sunlight's glovv, 
Or later, when the sun was low, 

Baptised in golden light. 

The playground there I see once more. 

With playhouse built of rails, 
Where oft in childhood's happy days 
We played at will our childish plays. 

And told our thoughtless tales. 

I see our teacher, noble girl. 

Arrayed in plain attire, 
As patiently she paced the room 
And wielded rule, or book, or broom, 

Or stirred the green wood fire. 

The benches, too, rude carvings bore. 

And on the low, dark walls 
The nails were driven where, day by day. 
By childish hands were hung away 

Our bonnets, caps and shawls. 

How well I mind the parting hour, ' 

Roll-call, rewards and kiss, 



98 POE TICAL POR TRAITS 



A lingering look, a flood of tears, 
A shadow stealing down the years, 
Darkening life's transient bliss. » 

The old school-house has given place 

To new one, painted red, 
And many of the girls and boys 
That shared with me the old one's joys, 

Are numbered with the dead. 

Our teacher now, with silvery hair, 

And step less light and free, 
Looks o'er the lapse of twenty years. 
And, smiling swxetly through her tears. 
Recalls the past with me. 

No more on earth shall we all meet, 

As in the days of yore ; 
But memory gilds with halo light 
Those scenes, fast fading from our sight. 

To be recalled no more. 

Roll on, swift years, and shroud the past 
' Beneath thy mystic veil ; 

Our life barques soon will drift at will 
Into the harbor, calm and still, 
Safe from the wave and gale. 

REFLECTIONS. 

Grieve not for me, for I am not forsaken. 

Though earthly friends should seem to be unkind ; 

Time will reveal that they have been mistaken, 
And though my heart aches I will be resigned. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 99 

The Lord knoweth best. His wisdom never faileth, 
His love is boundless, and His grace is sure. 

Faith in His mighty name alone prevaileth, 
Earth has no sorrow that He cannot cure. 

If He sees best to lead me through the shadows, 
Through rough defiles where roaring waters run, 

'Twill be as safe for me as verdant meadows — 
His precious love will be my shield and sun. 

Then to my soul I say, pine not in sadness. 
Arise and let the world by thee be blest. 

Go to thy daily toil with joy and gladness. 
Do well thy part, and God will do the rest. 

POEM. 

(Composed and read at a Fourth of July picnic in a 
grove in the Township of Hollywood, July 4, 1880.) 

Once more upon the old camp ground, 
With green arch o'er us bending, 

With grateful hearts we gather round, 
Our songs with nature's blending. 

Some that a year ago today. 

Gave us kindly greeting. 
Have gone to other lands away, 

And will not grace our meeting. 

Others, who met a year ago, 

Have passed away forever; 
Death's arrow laid the dear ones low ; 

God took them, o'er the river. 

■LofC. 



loo POETICAL PORTRAITS 



But let ns, with a gentle hand, 

Lay veil upon our sadness, 
And use the time at our command. 

To speak with hope and gladness. 

The songbirds trilling overhead. 
The fragrant zephyrs blowing, 

Unite with us in praising God 
For what He is bestowing. 

On this glad day we can rejoice. 
Despite a proud world's scorning; 

And with loud shout and cannon voice, 
Give every tyrant warning. 

Though all the world in arms combine, 
Our flag would be victorious ; 

True emblem of our liberty, 
All battle scarred and glorious. 

Today, this liberty is ours, 

Given with unstinted measure. 

Requiring all our noble powers 
To guard this sacred treasure. 

But not by force of arms alone. 

Can Ave defend our nation ; 
The Bible is the corner stone, 

The only sure foundation. 

Our fathers took it for their guide. 

In their deliberations ; 
Its moral precepts form the law 

Of all enlightened nations. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS loi 



And yet the world seems strangely stirred, 
Against this sacred treasure; 

And to defame God's holy word 
Affords the skeptic pleasure. 

Bob IngersoU, with loud harangue, 

His brilliant wit exposes, 
By holding forth in idle slang, 

The great mistakes of Moses. 

For shame, that any living man, 
In this great Christian nation, 

Should raise aloft his puny hand 
'Gainst Bible inspiration. 

But let men hurl their fiery darts, 

And sin's delusion cherish, 
God's truth, embalmed in human hearts, 

Will never, never, perish. 

Now, to the gents and ladies fair. 
Who hear this humble ditty, 

I pray you, shun the tempter's snare, 
In country, town or city. 

Be true to God and country dear, 

And wheresoe'er you stray. 
Unfurl our flag and give a cheer. 

In honor of this day. 



I02 POETICAL PORTRAITS 



"SPRING AND ITS TEACHINGS." 

Softly the zephyrs sigh today, 

Sweetly the wild birds sing, 
Inviting to poetic lay, 

The bard of lovely spring. 

She came with zephyr's cheering balm — 
No ''March winds" biting blast, 

But like the sweet and holy calm, 
When Sabbath days are past. 

The brooklets blessed the gentle ray 
Which touched their prison door, 

Then bounded on their seaward way, 
Joyous and free once more. 

When nature's priest her censer waves, 

Scenting the fragrant air, 
The flowers from death-like winter graves 

Arise in beauty rare. 

O'er leafless forests, brown and sere. 

She waves her magic w^and. 
And now their emerald robes appear, 

In transformation grand. 

Here flit the birds on tireless wing, 
Hymning their notes of praise, 

And we in gladness hear them sing 
The songs of other days. 

Oh ! what a joy the spring imparts 
To souls bowed down with care ; 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 103 



It brings a balm to wounded hearts, 
Sweet as a mother's prayer. 

There is a language in the breeze, 

A whisper in the air, 
That tells of flowers and fadeless trees, 

And bird-songs ever there. 

It speaks of dear ones robed in white. 
Who throng the shining shore, 

Where we, in Heaven's enchanted light, 
May bask forever more. 

It teaches us to sow our seeds 
Whose fruitage God will bless. 

If we but imitate the deeds 
Of Christ's tmselfishness. 

And w^hen on life's great battle plain. 
By doubts and fears oppressed, 

We long to 'scape from earthly pain 
And enter into rest. 

It bids us place our hopes above. 
And wait till God shall bring 

Our ransomed souls, through Jesus' love, 
To Heaven's eternal spring. 

BEAUTIFUL SUNLIGHT. 

The poet may write' of the pale moonlight. 

Or the stars that shine for aye. 
But lovelier, far, than moon or star. 

Is the beautiful orb of dav. 



104. POETICAL PORTRAITS 

Like a monarch's rise under eastern skies, 

Invading- the gloom of night, 
It heralds the day on its joyous way, 

Flooding the world with light. 

The birds that have slept while the nightdews wept, 

Break forth in tuneful song, 
While in joyous notes from a thousand throats. 

The chorus rolls along. 
The flowers in the glades, that bowed their heads, 

When the twilight shadows fell, 
In the sunlight gold, their leaves unfold. 

Perfuming the dewy dell. 

But the morning light, in its beauty bright, 

Equals not the close of day, 
When the shadows are long, and the voice of song 

Is fainting and dying away. 
We then see the gleam on the murmuring stream, 

Ere the twilight shadows fall ; 
And the last beams rise on the western skies, 

Like a glorious golden wall. 

Then let poets dream of the midnight queen. 

As her w^hite robes deck the night, 
Or the Orient stars, with their crimson bars. 

Flashing in silver light. 
But I will write of the fair sunlight. 

As it wanders, glad and free, 
From its eastern crest to the far, far west, 

To its home bevond the sea. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 105 

"IT IS BETTER IN THE SUNSHINE." 

"It is better in the sunshine," 

Said my Httle boy one day, 
As we stood where forest branches 

Cast their shadows o'er our way ; 
And he left my side and wandered 

Where the golden sunlight shone — 
Left me sitting, thinking, thinking. 

In the chilling gloom alone. 

"It is better in the sunshine !" 1 

It was but a childish thought. 
But it came to my lone spirit 

With a wondrous meaning fraught; 
And I reasoned : Yes, 'tis better 

In the sunshine warm and bright, 
Than to sit where ghostly shadows 

Darken all the rosy light. 

i 

"It is better in the sunshine" 

Of our Heavenly Father's smile, 
Than to wander unforgiven 

In the darkness all the while. 
Danger lurketh in the darkness, 

Danger that no heart can brave, 
But the light of hope is shining, 

Held by Him whose hand can save. 

"It is better in the sunshine" 

Of a perfect hope and trust, 
Showing others by submission 

That God's ways are true and just ; ^ 



io6 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

Showing, also, by a courage 

Born of faith perfumed by love, 

That our hearts are filled with sunshine 
From the fount of light above. 

''It is better in the sunshine" 

Of a life of praise and prayer. 
Where the Rose of Sharon bloometh, 

And its fragrance lingers there ; 
Where the white robed angel campeth, 

And the foe is kept at bay ; 
Where the night is light about you, 

Shining ever as the day. 

''It is better in the sunshine !" 

Oh, believe it, every one, 
And so live that your example 

May be like a moral sun ; 
Then the darkness lying round you 

Like a mist will pass away. 
And a golden glory crown you 

In the evening of life's day. 

THE GOLDEN STAIR. 

Far from the busy haunts of men, a settler's home was 
made, 

Where flowerets bloomed and wild birds sang, and mur- 
muring streamlets played. 

A loving wife the settler had, who kept his home with 
care. 

Besides two sons of tender years, and two young daugh- 
ters fair. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 107 

And as they gathered night by night around the social 
hearth, 

Their humble cabin seemed to them a paradise on earth. 

And thus the dreamy days wore on until a change was 
seen, 

And Autumn's crimson glories took the place of sum- 
mer's green. 

Then one by one the sweet wild flowers their parting fra- 
grance shed, 

And Atitumn's chilling breezes sang a requiem for the 
dead; 

The storm-king from his northern home came on with 
snow and hail, 

And shrouded nature's blushing face 'neath winter's spot- 
less veil. 

The murmuring brook no longer sang its song of joy 
and praise, 

And wild birds sought its banks no more as in the warm- 
er days. 

The snow-clad mountains far away in silent grandeur 
rose, 

While at their base the valleys lay all wrapt in deep re- 
pose. 



And still the settler's cabin stands just where it stood 

before. 
And from its roof the blue smoke curls as in the days 

of yore ; 
But sorrow in the forest home usurps the place of joy, 
For death has laid his icy hand upon their youngest boy. 



/ocV POETICAL PORTRAITS 

The settler's eyes are dim with tears, as silently he stands, 
And looks upon that sweet pale face and little purple 

hands. 
The mother meekly bows her head and says God's will 

be done, 
For in the deathless Edenland she hopes to meet her 

son. 

Now ye who doubt a future life, dismiss your idle fears, 
For better proof need not be sought than that which now 

appears ; 
For as the film of death o'erspreads those eyes of lustrous 

grace, 
A halo of unearthly light steals o'er his dying face. 

One little finger upward points to tell that weeping 

throng 
That he has seen the angel choir and heard the angels' 

song ; 
Those feeble hands are beckoning now, his eyes grow 

radiant bright. 
And memory whispers, God has said at eve it shall be 

light.' 

And now the lamp of life grows dim, his face in death 

grows pale ; 
His life-barque nears the Heavenly shore, furled in the 

storm-worn sail. 
The churchyard holds a little grave, and oft we linger 

there. 
Thinking of him whose weary feet have climbed the 

golden stair. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS log 



THE MUSIC OF THE AIR. 

As I listen to the breathing of the wild wind wandering 
free, 

There is something in its presence that is almost heaven 
to me ; 

As it parts the clouds above me and reveals the bright 
blue sky, 

Fancy paints the golden outlines of sweet forms that nev- 
er die. 

I remember that our Saviour, as He taught the sons of 

earth, 
Took the wind as illustration of the power of spirit birth ; 
Then I think about the peril of that night upon the deep, 
When His voice amid the tempest hushed the stormy 

winds to sleep. 

It may thunder through the valleys louder than the 
ocean's roar. 

Breaking down the forest monarchs, strewing wrecks 
along the shore. 

Or breathe forth in gentle zephyrs playing with the hang- 
ing vines, 

"Fanning in its flight the dying," "moaning softly 
through the pines." 

Rolling up the white capped billows, speeding on the 
snowy sail. 

Rising in its wrath and causing storm-browned cheeks 
to blanch and pale. 

Murmuring in the twilight gloaming, singing in the day- 
light fair, 

Still to me the sweetest music is the music of the air. 



no POETICAL PORTRAITS 



BE PATIENT WITH THE CHILDREN. 

Oh ! how much of God-like patience, 

We, as parents stand in need, 
While we have, as household shepherds, 

These, our tender lambs to feed. 

God has kindly given them to us. 
To disperse the chilling gloom. 

That about our pathway lingers, 
As we journey toward the tomb. 

Death may hush the childish prattle, 

Put the little hearts to rest. 
Drag the happy, joyous birdlings, 

Shortly from the parent nest. 

"When we see the little aprons, 
And the dresses that they wore, 

Laid away in musty drawer, 
Never to be ruffled more, 

Or the tiny shoes and stockings, 
That once cased their little feet, 

Given to some other darling, 
Or some outcast on the street," 

Oh, how sadly we shall murmur. 

That a careless word of ours. 
Should have fall'n like Autumn frost-blight 

On the frail and fragrant flowers. 

Do we oft complain of labor. 
That on children we bestow? 



POETICAL PORTRAITS iii 



We forget the obligations, 
Which to them we justly owe. 

O'er our lives they throw an influence, 
Like the rain on sunburned sod, 

Lifting upward our afifections, 
Toward the loving heart of God. 

All the sorrow that they bring us. 
All the trouble and the care, 

Are like summer storms, that, passing, 
Cleanse and purify the air. 

Then be patient w4th the children. 
For the fount of youth must flow, 

And its streams will bless the deserts 
Of our hearts and homes below. 

"THE CURSE OF RUM." 

My theme today is the curse of rum, 

What say you one and all. 
Do you earnestly pray for the time to come 

When its power must wane and fall? 

Keep quiet, our politicians say. 

But my lips will not be dumb, 
For the greatest curse in the world today, 

Is the fiery curse of rum. 

And I will speak of this great wrong. 

And I will vote, and pray. 
And assert the rights that to me belong, 

To put it down, and away. 



112 POETICAL PORTRAITS 



We dread the touch of war's red hand ; 

We shrink from its bhghting breath, 
For we know that its shadow o'er the land, 

Is hke to the gloom of death. 

We tremble in fear of the earthquake's shock, 

Or the simoon's deadly blast ; 
And we flee to the cleft of the solid rock. 

When the mighty storm goes past. 

We hide away from the plague that flies 

On cruel death-charged wings ; 
And we guard our persons as best we may, 

From venomous bites and stings. 

But oh ! the foe that we meet today. 

Is king over every ill ; 
O'er body and soul it holdeth sway, 

And over the mind and will. 

It appealeth not to a good desire. 

It seeketh no heart to bless. 
And its only light is a terrible fire 

Of greed and selfishness. 

A subtle serpent night and day, 

It lurks in the fairest flowers ; 
And its trail is ever an evil Avay 

Through this beautiful world of ours. 

It knows no north, and it knows no south. 

It knows no east or west ; 
And it pours the slime from its greedy mouth 

Over our fairest and best. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 113 

The tears of orphans that rum has made 

Have long bedewed the sod, 
And the widow's prayers, have winged their way, 

Up to the throne of God. 

Surely 'twould seem that all good men 

Against it would unite. 
And using vote, and voice, and pen. 

Assert their lawful right, 

To put away this giant wrong. 

To march w^ith manly tread, 
And with a stately step, and strong. 

To crush the serpent's head. 

And they are coming at last, thank God ; 

A brave and fearless band, 
And they're sending the light of His truth abroad, 

All over this rum-cursed land. 

To hovel and palace the message goes, 

And figures that w^ill not lie 
Are startling men from their blind repose. 

More and more, as the days go by. 

And my prayer is still, that the truth may smite. 

Like a sharp two-edged blade, 
Till all the world may feel the blight 

And ruin that rum has made. 

Till every Christian in this fair land 

Shall open his sleepy eyes, 
And work w^ith a willing heart and hand 

Its power to pulverize. 



114- POE TICAL POR TRAITS 

We have stood the strain of a great campaign, 

And our banner is unfurled, 
And the truths we hold are as bright as gold ; 

Yea, they are the light of the world. 

They shine today with a hopeful ray, 

In many a lonely spot, 
Where the shadows fall like a funeral pall, 

And the sunshine enters not. 

Oh ! let us then like temperance men, 
Work on till the time shall come. 

When land and sea shall hold jubilee, 
Over the death of rum. 

COME TO ME, BEAUTIFUL ANGELS. 

Come to me,beautiful angels, 

As you come to me in my dream.s, 
And I list to the sound of your voices, 

Like the musical murmur of streams. 
How sweetly your voices echo. 

In cadences soft and low, 
Like the whispers that haunt my memory 

Coming back from the long ago. 

Come to me, beautiful angels, 

Down from the mansions of light, 
And bring to my care-weary spirit, 

A heart-cheering message tonight. 
My loved ones have passed from my vision. 

Gone to the land where you dwell ; 
Oh, come to me, beautiful angels. 

And say that with them all is well. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 115 

Come to me, beautiful angels, 

And lull my sad spirit to rest 
With songs that they sing in full chorus 

In the bright fadeless home of the blest. 
Patient, I wait for your coming, 

And sweet is the balm that it brings. 
For I hear in the sigh of the zephyrs 

The rush of invisible wings. 

THE SUMMER BLOOM IS FADING. 

The summer bloom is fading. 

Bright fragrant summer bloom ; 
And autumn's steps invading, 

Sound like the knell of doom. 
The sky is deeper-tinted. 

The clouds the change betray 
By settling down upon us 

At evening cold and grey. 

The summer bloom is fading, 

The woodlands, brown and sere, 
Have lost their emerald lading; 

And as they thus appear 
Bereft of half their glory. 

By autumn's blighting breath, 
They tell the mournful story 

Of ruin and of death. 

The summer bloom is fading, 

We read it everywhere ; 
In dark and gloomy shading, 

In pictures bright and fair ; 



ii6 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

In shadows on the river 
Where faded leaflets lie, 

And leafless branches quiver, 
As chilling winds go by. 

The summer bloom is fading, 

The birds their farewells sing; 
Their old haimts serenading 

Before they spread the wing 
For sunny southern meadows. 

Where summer lingers long. 
And all the air is vocal 

With notes of sweetest song. 

The summer bloom is fading, 

Ah ! little do we know 
How soon above our grave mounds 

Shall sift the winter's snow ; 
How soon life's transient summer 

And autumn will be fled, 
And all, like blighted blossoms. 

Rest with the sleeping dead. 

The summer bloom is fading. 

Well, it is God's own way. 
Death followeth life as faithfully 

As night succeedeth day. 
But just as sure as morning 

Dispels the gloom of night. 
Death, too, will be succeeded 

By endless life and light. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS iiy 



IN GREEN PASTURES. 

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures, 
He leadeth me beside the still waters. — Psalm 
xxiii, 2d. 

I am safe on the uplands eternal, 

Where meadows and pastures are green, 
Where flowers bloom unfadingly vernal, 

And the King in His beauty is seen. 
Where song birds are evermore singing 

In harmony thrilling and sweet, 
Where joy bells are constantly ringing 

And bright streamlets sing at my feet. 

Below me lies buried the sorrow 

That once o'er my heart held its sway. 
And the light of life's golden tomorrow 

Has driven the shadows away; 
Oh, beautiful life on the mountains, 

Beyond where the storms ever roll. 
Where daily I drink from those fountains 

That quenches the thirst of the soul. 

How often I think of the many 

Who walk in the valleys below, 
With faces forever turned earthward, 

How little of Heaven they know. 
They hang their bruised harps on the willow. 

And sit where the shadows are long, 
BHnd to the beauties around them, 

Deaf to the voices of song. 

Ah ! well the dark days I remember 
When I, too, walked onward alone. 



ii8 POETICAL PORTRAITS 



When into my heart's cold December 
Faith's bright summer sun never shone. 

The past was unfruitful behind me, 
The future so hopeless before, 

The present Avas joyless around me. 
And heavy the burden I bore. 

But while in the darkness I waited, 

Nor dreamed that the dawn was so near. 
The storm in its fury abated. 

And angels of mercy drew near, 
Peace came to my heart like a river. 

The dark night of doubt passed away, 
I worshipped the Infinite giver. 

And heard Him most tenderly say : 

You are walking alone in the shadows. 

In sorrow and sighing and tears ; 
Come up to the flower-scented meadows, 

Where love crowns the swift passing years. 
Where all hearts are firmly imited 

In bonds of affection so pure. 
That vows of fidelity plighted, 

Forever and ever endure. 



I listened attentive, then answered. 

Dear Saviour my faith is so small. 
And I am so weak and so wear}^, 

I fear I shall stumble and fall. 
My grace, said the Lord, is sufficient, 

My wisdom will guide you alway ; 
Oh, come from the night of your sorrows. 

Out into the clear shining day. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 119 

So then I could tarry no longer, 

I rose in the strength of His might, 
Up out of the mazes of darkness. 

Up into His marvellous light. 
Now I walk in a glory unclouded, 

I bask in the sunlight of love. 
The world with its woe is beneath me, 

And Heav'n with its bliss is above. 

THE SAINTED DEAD. 

How fares it now with the sainted dead 

That left us long ago. 
Have they gone to a world of life and light ? 
Are they clad in beautiful robes of white? 

Ah, me ! how I long to know. 

Or do they rest in the silent grave, 

Sleeping a dreamless sleep, 
Deaf to the joyous seraph's strain, ' 
Deaf to the sobs of the lost in pain 

Dead in their graves so deep. 

I gaze in tears at the dewy sod. 

In tears at the star-gem'd sky, 
I listen above the sinking mound, 
But all is still and I hear no sound 

Save a zephyr's mournful sigh. 

No tidings come of the mariners 

Afloat on death's dark sea ; 
We hear the murmur of wave and gale. 
But catch no glimpse of the snowy sail, 

'Tis hidden in mystery. 



I20 POETICAL PORTRAITS 



They drifted away in the waning Hght 

Of Hfe's eventful day. 
By the tide of death they were borne afar, 
And we trust have passed o'er the harbor bar 

To that city over the way. 

THE BALM OF MUSIC. 

I heard a soft band playing, 

I heard a sweet voice sing ; 
I did not know the voice that sang 

Nor hand that touched the string, 
And yet I gladly welcomed 

That vocal offering. 

As down life's path we wander 

How many notes arise. 
Sweet as y^olean whispers 

Or chorus from the skies, 
Yet as entranced we listen. 

The far off music dies. 

We know not whence it cometh, 
We know not whither bound, 

We only know our sad hearts 
Are gladden'd by the sound, 

And so we pray devoutly, 
God speed the music round. 

How many a soul is pining 

In sorrow lone and chill. 
Whose ear no music reaches. 

Whose heart no sweet notes thrill, 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 121 



The music floats beyond them 
And leaves them sorrowing still. 

One little note of gladness, 

One simple song of praise 
Might lift the veil of sadness 

And set the heart ablaze 
With gleams of golden sunshine, 

And light of fairer days. 

The happy scenes of childhood 
Might be revived once more, 

The pleasant fields and wildwood — 
Dear ones they loved of yore, 

Whose feet have crossed Death's river 
And touched a deathless shore. 

And tho' the tears might gather 

And fall like summer rain. 
After the stormy weather 

Bright days would come again. 
And all would work together 

To ease the heart's dull pain. 

Then go ye, sweet voiced singers, 
To those who droop and pine, 

Sing till the arms now drooping 
Shall with your own entwine, 

'Til eyes now sad and hopeless 

With hope's glad light shall shine. 



122 POETICAL PORTRAITS 



A CHRISTMAS POEM. 

I. 
Out of the refuse and slime of the pit, 
Boihng and pouring and poisoning it, 
Satan concocted a horrible stew 
And named it Revenge, and named it right, too ; 
Then said he to the servant who stood by his side, 
''This is a grand potion, go scatter it wide, 
Not here among Devils, but up among men ; 
It's too rank for us, but it's just right for them. 
Don't force them to drink it — of that there's no need — 
They'll drink it themselves when they're thirsty indeed ; 
They won't take a taste and thereafter go dry. 
But drink more and more, aye, they'll drink till they die." 

Then away at his bidding he instantly flew. 

Inspired by the cheers of the sulphurous crew. 

Far, far away from the regions infernal. 

Where birds sang serene and flowers bloomed vernal. 

Where joy bells rang sweetly, nor discord nor strife 

Had ever embittered the pleasures of life, 

The servant of Satan directed his flight 

And scattered his beverage by day and by night. 

Continually chuckling and thinking w^hat fun 

He would have looking on when his mission was done. 

II. 
Two neighbors together had lived many years 
Unselfishly sharing their joys and their fears. 
Rejoicing in sunshine and grieving in rain, 
But always good natured and simple and plain. 
One day neighbor Goodspeed unthinkingly went 
To town 'cross the fields of his neighbor Content ; 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 123 

'Twas Slimmer and haying was well under way 
And a spark from his pipe chanced to light in the hay ; 
Now, old farmer Goodspeed unconscious of ill, 
Tramped on and smoked on to the village and mill. 
Whence returning at last he was shocked to behold 
A smoke as it were like a furnace of old. 

Alack and alack, what an unlucky day 

When he smoked that old pipe in his neighbor's dry hay ! 

Great damage was done ere the fire was subdued 

And farmer Content in unneighborly mood 

Assailed his old neighbor in language severe, 

And said in due time, "Sir, from me you shall hear." 

Going into the stable that very same night 

His eye caught the sight of a vial corked tight, 

Sitting up on a girt and not far from the door ; 

*'I wonder," quoth he, ''I've not seen it before." 

The vial w^as labeled Revenge, and he took it, 

Held it up to the light and then shook it and shook it. 

Uncorked it, drank from it, then said with a leer, 

"I'll be even with him if it takes a whole year." 

HI. 
Farmer Goodspeed went home and his grief it was great. 
But he said, "Never mind, when his wrath doth abate, 
I'll settle with him to the fullest extent ; 
Then on with his labors he cheerfully went ; 
The summer went by and the autumn days came, 
And the trees of the wood waved their banners of flame, 
Defiantly waved till afar from the north 
A cyclonic wind in its fury went forth, 
And batter'd and scatter'd the banners so gay. 
Till at last on the ground in confusion they lay. 



12^ POETICAL PORTRAITS 



Meanwhile the two neighbors worked on as before, 
But neither would darken the other one's door. 
Content was just waiting" some favorable day 
To pay neighbor Goodspeed for burning his hay ; 
One day farmer Goodspeed returned from the town 
With a letter in hand which he held upside down, 
As he said to his wife in a tone of good cheer 
"This letter reminds me that Christmas is near. 
Joe wants us to come — he won't take a denial — 
And give his wife's cooking an impartial trial." 
So the day before Christmas, all things being ready, 
They hitched up a horse that was faithful and steady, 
And while the bells jingled in mad merry glee, 
Drove off to spend Christmas with Joe, don't you see. 

IV. 
That evening at chore time, as farmer Content 
Was just coming out of his stable, there went 
Through his being a thrill, for he saw in amaze 
His enemy's barn just beginning to blaze ; 
There were horses and cattle and grain, hay and all, 
Besides farming utensils that surely must fall, 
Unless — "but, no never, I'll not lift a hand 
If it burn house and barn up and all of his land. 
I'll drink from the vial and then I shall feel 
As cool as an iceberg, as heartless as steel." 
He drank but a swallow, then ran with a will. 
Crying, "help, neighbors, help, there's a fire on the hill." 

The conflict was fearful, but victory was gained. 
The fire was subdued and but slight loss sustained ; 
The news spread abroad and the farmer returned, 
Rejoiced that his buildings had not all been burned. 
They all were astonished, but most so Content, 
As back to his stable he hurriedlv went. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 123 

Saying-, ''Wonder of wonders, it seemeth so stran?"e 

How that very same drink could produce such a change ; 

Whenever I drank from that vial before, 

I felt like a demon, I cursed and I swore, 

But since that last drink, why, my heart is as free 

From all wicked thoughts as a child's heart could be.'' 

V. 
Thus musing, he entered the stable, and lo ! 
In its place stood the vial as usual, but no, 
'Tis not the same vial ; he reads in surprise 
That sweet word Forgiveness — he doubts his own eyes ; 
Hark ! some one is speaking ; he listens in pain. 
For the words fairly burn to his heart and his brain : 
You drank from the beverage which Satan prepared, 
And Satanic feelings you instantly shared; 
Deep down in your heart where forgiveness should dwell 
You cherished the cowardly spirit of Hell ; 
You stifled each whisper which came from above 
Forever ignoring the sweet law of love ; 
You scattered the thorns and the briars for all 
And sowed the black tare seed where good seed should fall; 
You joined hands with Satan in making this earth 
Akin to that region where brimstone has birth. 
But God in His mercy considering your case, 
That you were but one of a weak fallen race 
And tempted by one who was subtle and strong 
To cherish a spirit so sinful and wrong. 
Sent down a bright angel to substitute then 
A spirit of peace and of good will to men. 
Now go to your neighbor — you cannot do less — 
And faithfully all your wrong feelings confess. 
Be reconciled truly this sweet Christmas morn. 
Rejoicing that ever the Christ child was born." 



126 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

VI. 

The strange voice was silent ; he kneeled on the floor ; 
He wept and he prayed and for grace did implore ; 
He went to his neighbor, confessed all his sin, 
And both of them promised anew to begin. 



My story is long, but the morals are plain — 

Moral y?r5/^ let us ever from smoking abstain, 

'Twas the fire in the pipe and the coal in the hay 

Which caused all the trouble that bright summer's day. 

Moral second, beware of what Satan has brewed, 

Whatever 'tis labeled, with death 'tis endued. 

In vial or bottle, in jug, glass or bowl, 

'Twill poison the body and ruin the soul. 

Moral third^ is a lesson all people should know 

Who would harbor revenge in their hearts here below : 

If we would be workers together with God 

We must scatter the seeds of forgiveness abroad. 

Altho' not real angels of Heavenly birth 

It is possible still to be angels on earth. 

God has them, earth needs them, so let us all try 

To sow precious seed for the sweet by and by. 

COUNTY LODGE POEM, I. O. G. T. 

Good Templars of Russell — 

Good people I know. 
For looks, words and actions 

Interpret you so — 
We gather tonight 

With our friends far and near 
To speak words of comfort, 

Of hope and of cheer. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 127 



We are marching along 

In this Temperance reform 
With full expectations 

Of standing the storm. 
The lightning may flash 

And the thunder may roll, 
And wild be the tempest 

From pole unto pole, 

But, with firm convictions 

Of duty and right, 
Good Templars are fearless — 

Unmoved by the sight. 
Our ranks are in order, 

Our hearts are serene, 
Oiir speech is in earnest. 

We say what we mean. 

No compromise measure 

Will satisfy now; 
Prohibit, prohibit. 

Or there'll be a row. 
The tree that bears nothing 

But license or tax 
Is billed for a bonfire — 

Come on with the ax ! 

Wake up then my brothers 

With stroke true and strong, 
The old license monarch 

Will tumble ere long; 
And hark you, ye tradesmen 

Who sell alcohol. 
We won't let you know 

When it's going to fall. 



128 POETICAL PORTRAITS 



Methinks I can hear it 

Go thundering down, 
While the earth fairly trembles 

For leagues and leagues round; 
The trunk peeled and broken, 

The limbs scattered wide, 
Bereft once for all 

Of its glory and pride. 

But mourn not my brothers, 

Nor grieve at its fall ; 
Its shadow was baneful, 

Its blight was on all. 
Let it lie as it fell 

On the desolate spot, 
Its mission was murder 

Come away, let it rot. 

There is a green rootlet 

At present but small, 
'Twill make a fine tree 

When it grows grand and tall. 
Prohibition we call it 

And smile as it grows, 
As fair as a lily. 

As sweet as a rose. 

O, brothers and sisters. 

Thank God for this tree 
And its mission so holy 

In days yet to be. 
No widows or orphans 

Will weep 'neath its shade, 
But for its prosperity 

Prayers will be made. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS i2g 

The drunkard will come 

To this Temperance tree, 
And its beautiful leaves 

For his healing will be. 
The poor and the needy 

Will smile as of yore, 
Ere the wolf of Intemperance 

Howled at their door. 

This tree is a lighthouse, 

Imposing and fair, 
Whose white light will brighten 

The gloom of despair. 
Like the flag we adore, 

May its branches long wave 
**0'er the land of the free 

And the home of the brave." 

LONGING. 

There is a world beyond the tomb 

Whose mist-veiled heights we dimly see; 

From age to age in silent gloom 
It proves life's deepest mystery. 

Between us and that world beyond 

Death's sullen stream flows deep and wide ; 

No voice across it doth respond 
Or signal from the other side 

Gives warning that a mortal barque 

Has safely reached the farther shore, 
Beyond the river lone and dark 

Which murmurs onward evermore. 



ijo POETICAL PORTRAITS 



And yet across this mystic tide, 

Freighted with human hopes and fears, 

Unnumbered fragile Hfe barques gUde 
As constant as the march of years. 

O, that some strong and helpful hand 
Would push the gates of Death ajar, 

And bring to view that sacred land 

Where faith still holds, our dear ones are. 

In vain our wish, our longing vain. 

The Father sayeth, no, amen. 
Life's silver chord must rend in twain 

E'en we may see our loved again. 

THE PITY OF IT. 

*'Hev ve heerd of the trouble in Churchville, 
How ther' commentin' pro and con? 

Well, I tell ye, it just beats the dickens — 
Sech talk and sech goin's-on. 

Ye see, they had a minister — 

No matter 'bout his name — 
He weren't very much of a pusher, 

But he got there just the same. 

The church was a prosperin' middlin', 

Gainin' a little each year, 
But they wanted a big revival 

Their droopin' hearts to cheer. 

The pastor didn't git up one. 

Which they thought wuz ruther strange. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 131 



An' so they got tired and restless 
An' clamor'd loud fer a change. 

Meanwhile the pastor wuz workin' 

An' doin' his level best, 
With a half a dozen o' his members, 

But he couldn't stir th^ rest. 

He urged them to 'tend prayer meetin', 
An' some of 'em say thet he said, 

"Brethren and sisters, I tell ye, 
Thet faith without works is dead." 

He started some extra meetin's, 
That is, meetin's ev'ry night, 

An' he preached some stirrin' sermons, 
But they didn't stir a mite. 

He tried ev'ry plan he could think on 

To git 'em to testify — 
Told 'em their oppertunities 

Wuz rapidly driftin' by; 

Took up the Bible and quoted 
The sayin's of Christ and Paul, 

An' threw in a hull lot o' comments. 
But he couldn't move 'em at all. 

They jest didn't seem to mind it, 

But came in few and late, 
An' sat down 'way back in the corner 

To silentlv meditate. 



132 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

Well, the pastor got discouraged, 
Of course, after tryin' and tryin', 

An' said, "We will close the meetin's 
Fer it's plain to be seen their dyin'. 

I hed hoped fer a great outpourin'. 

Fasted and prayed fer it, too. 
But you, brethren, won't co-operate 

An' so what am I to do? 

They were mightily disappointed 

An' told the pastor so, 
An' why he hed made sech a failure 

They didn't seem to know. 

The pastor was grieved with their murmuring 

Reviewed the situation. 
An' after his mornin' sermon 

He read 'em his resignation. 



'fe' 



This wuz jest what some of 'em w^anted. 
But some were sad and sore, 

An' grieved fer the outgoin' pastor 
Whose face they might see no more. 

But the pulpit surely wuz vacant, 
The committee must now arise, 

And see to the regular bizness 
Of gettin' a few supplies. 

They got 'em without any trouble, 

Fer one an' another came 
An' read 'em a beaiutiful essay, 

A sermon at least in name — 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 133 



'Til the fathers and mothers in Israel 
Got sick of sech dainty bread 

An' sighed fer the solid Gospel, 

The 'old-fashioned Word,' they said. 

They hed no pastoral visitin', 

No one to talk an' pray 
From house to house with the members 

An' pint to the shinin' way ; 

To go to the sick and aged, 

Scatter'd here an' there, 
An' speak of thet grand renewin' 

In the mansions bright an' fair. 

But they kep' up formal service, 
An' the members who took a part 

Kep' prayin' the Lord to send 'em 
A man after His own heart. 

An under-shepherd to lead 'em 

In pastures green an' new, 
A faithful and willin' servant 

A glorious work to do. 

Well, heow it wuz ever accojjiplished 

I'm sure I couldn't tell, 
But they finally settled a pastor. 

An' most of 'em thought they did well. 

He carried himself so graceful, 

Hed such an air of command, 
The sisters said over and over, 

"I tell ye, our pastor is grand." 



134- POETICAL PORTRAITS 

He wnzn't as young as the last one, 

An' he wuzn't so very old ; 
The church sed, with few exceptions, 

"This man is a nugget of gold." 

Thus things went on for a short time, 
An' then (don't mention it 'loud), 

But somehow it got to be rumor'd 
That Rev. McStyler was proud. 

Then Rev. McStyler was worldly,'^ 
Didn't 'tend to the prayermeetin's well. 

Made **too many visits at meal time," 
Hed too many stories^ to tell." 

Didn't always "preach orthodox sermons," 
An' most of his sermons wuz "dry," 

He "mumbled his v;ords indistinctly" 
And hed a "queer twitch to his eye." 

His temp'rance wuz "so complicated," 
His friends couldn't tell where he stood. 

The outsiders dropped off, declarin' 
"We won't hear him preach; he's no good." 

An' as fer that hoped for revival 

The heavens were brassy an' bright, 

An' the church became weary with waitin' 
For the cloud that came never in sight. 

Not even a single addition 

By letter or baptism came 
To offset the whispers and rumors 

An' add to the pastor's small fame. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS J35 



The pulpit committee grew anxious, 
The year wuz fast passin' away, 

An' every one saw that McStyler 
Wuz fully intendin' to stay. 

He wuz deef to the whispers an' rumors 
That thickly pervaded the air, 

Or, if not, he wuz hully indiff'rent 
An' seemed not to notice or care. 

At last the committee determined 

To wait on the Rev. AIcS. 
An' give 'im a square ultimatum. 

State plainly the facts (more or less). 

Well wa' n't he surprised at their visit? 

An' didn't his dignity rise? 
An' didn't he inform that committee 

That they wuz more hasty than wise ? 

But he couldn't frighten those veterans, 
Or make 'em feel sorry or sore. 

They felt right at hom.e in the matter — 
They had seen jest sech service before! 

Next Sunday they took an expression. 
An' most of 'em freely expressed 

The thought that McStyler wuz weary 
An' voted to give him a rest. 

So now they are waitin' and watchin', 

An' prayin' the Lord again 
To send 'em another pastor. 

An' they hope to be satisfied then. 



136 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

But if He should send 'em an angel, 

Or even His earthly Son, 
They wouldn't succeed in Churchville 

Fer I tell ye it can't be done. 

THE PASSING OF A DECEMBER DAY. 

The sky is veiled and hidden 

By sombre clouds of grey, 
And sunshine is forbidden 

This dark December day. 

The snow is swiftly falling 

Upon the frozen ground, 
But the wind uplifts and deftly shifts 

And scatters it around. 

A snow mist hides the landscape, 

Converging earth and sky, 
And barren trees bend to the breeze 

They would in vain defy. 

Thankful for food and raiment 
And shelter from the storm. 

With mind serene we view the scene, 
Safe from all sense of harm. 

Now the brief day is dying, 
Twilight droops into night. 

The wind no longer crying- 
Sinks with the waning light. 

And only fitful moanings 

Disturb the sleepy sense, 
Until at last, sensation past. 

In dreams we wander hence. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 137 



COUNTY LODGE POEM, I. O. G. T. 

Once again with banners waiving 
And with badg'es new and bright, 

We have gathered as an army 
In the sacred cause of right ; 

May the dear Lord see and prosper 
Our Good Templar force tonight. 

We are not a warhke people — 

Keeping step to fife and drum. 
We are only Home Guard soldiers 

Fighting 'gainst the Demon Rum ; 
And to strengthen our equipment 

Is the reason we have come. 

We are not a warlike people — 

We prefer the peaceful arts — 
But a cause is now imperilled 

That is dear to patriot hearts ; 
So we band ourselves together. 

Better to enact our parts. 

Is it not a thrilling drama 

That is passing day by day, 
Wherein all are truly actors 

Though so many turn away, 
While the alcoholic monster 

Fattens on his helpless prey ? 

"All the world's a stage," said Shakespeare, 

Men and women come and go. 
Standing out before the footlights, 



138 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

Some in joy and some in woe, 
Prompted by an unseen prompter 
Be it friend or be it foe. 

There's a mighty stage, my brothers, 
Draped in mourning wide and deep, 

Where the victims of intemperance 
Stand and drink and shout and leap, 

Till the footlights burning dimly 
One by one they fall asleep. 

And I hear the mournful music 

Stealing sadly over all. 
Wailing of the broken hearted 

And the lost beyond recall ; 
But the prompter bows and beckons 

And the sable curtains fall. 

Then amid the awful silence, 
While the heart beats painfully, 

We discover what so many 
Somehow always fail to see — 

That the scenes we sadly witnessed 
Bore the seal of tragedy. 

I would have it discontinued 
Spite of all that men might say, 

I would save the desperate actors, 
I would take the stage away; 

And for man's sake and for God's sake 
I w^ould stop the bloody play. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 139 

THE PRODIGAL SON. 

Heir of a princely fortune, 

Son of a worthy sire, 
There yet remained unto him 

One unfulfilled desire; 
The great wide world about him 

He so longed to explore. 
To leave his native country 

And seek a foreign shore. 

Home life had grown so tiresome, 

So dull and commonplace ; 
There seemed so little beauty 

In each familiar face ; 
So little that he cherished 

About his childhood's home, 
That he resolved to leave it, 

The wide, wide world to roam. 

Accordingly, one evening 

He sought his father's side. 
And said to him : ''My father. 

The world is fair and wide ; 
I cannot be contented 

With youth's bright banner furled, 
The longing groweth stronger 

To see more of the world." 1 

"Now, father, I beseech you, 

My portion give to me ; 
For when thou hast it given 

There'll still be much for thee. 



I4.0 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

I know thou hast a plenty 
For many years in store, 

Give but my legal portion, 
I will not ask for more." 

**My son," replied the father, 

"I warn you to beware, 
The world is dark and sinful. 

Beset by many a snare ; 
Thus far you have been shielded 

From dangers manifold. 
Secure from those temptations 

That tempt the young and old." 

"The world is full of pleasures 

That never satisfy ; 
And all its sparkling fountains 

In due time will run drv ; 
The friends that in fair weather 

Would fain your fortune share, 
When shadows deeply gather 

Will leave you in despair. 

"And, as for your fair portion, 

Remember what I say : 
The world will wrest it from you, 

And waste it all awav. 
Yet would I not detain you, 

Nor keep you from your right ; 
I will divide my living 

With you this very night." 

Not many days thereafter 
This foolish younger son 

Gathered all he had together. 
His race of life to run ; 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 141 

Then taking his departure 

He went far, far away 
Into an alien country, 

And journeyed many a day. 

But in that foreign country 

From all restraint set free, 
His substance soon was wasted 

In sinful revelry ; 
And now from wealth and honor 

He sank into disgrace, 
'Til want and hunger met him 

And stared him in the face. 

For in that land of strangers, 

To add to other woes_, 
The sacred record tells us 

''x\ mighty famine rose." 
Broken in purse and spirit. 

He wandered to and fro, 
By every friend forsaken, 

Sad type of grief and woe. 

The father's solemn warning 

Comes to him once again. 
Comes as a bitter memory 

To fill his soul with pain. 
Dark shadows gather round him. 

Want doth his heart appall, 
And with prophetic finger 

Seems ''writing on the w:all." 

One day the glad news reached him 

That in a neighboring town 
Employment would be given ; 

A wealthv man was found 



1^2 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

Who would accept his service, 
His herd of swine to feed, 

x\nd so to him he hastened 
In sore and urgent need. 

Out in the fields he sent him 

Beneath a tropic sun, 
To scatter husks among them 

From morn till day was done. 
Friendless, alone, and starving, 

His ruin now complete, 
He coveted the tasteless husks 

The filthy swine did eat. 

• But even these were precious, 

And no one gave him leave — 
A more forlorn condition 

One could not well conceive. 
Now came the past before him ; 

In vision clear and plain. 
He saw his father's mansion — 

The dear old home again. 

"How many hired servants 

My father hath," he said, 
"Who feast upon his bounty, 

And never lack for bread ; 
While I with hunger perish 

Among these greedy swine. 
My father hath a plenty — 

Alas ! it is not mine." 

"For I have had my portion — 
A fair and generous one ; 

And am, I know, unworthy 
Now to be called his son ; 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 143 

Yet will I hasten to him, 

Presuming on his grace, 
And say to him : 'My father. 

Give me a servant's place/ " 

And so the helpless prodigal 

(Despoiled of all his pride, 
Grateful that in his weakness 

He had not starved and died) 
Arose, and started homeward 

With feeble step and slow, 
So little like the young man 

That left it long ago. 

His garments hung in tatters ; 

His shoes worn off his feet ; 
Footsore, and wan, and weary, 

He passed along the street. 
No thought of welcome greeting 

His drooping spirits cheered, 
His courage sank within him. 

His father's wrath he feared. 

"I'll tell him I have sinned," said he, 

"'Gainst heaven, and in his sight, 
That I am all unworthy 

And ask no son's birth-right. 
Make me a hired servant, 

Clothe me in such attire. 
And I will serve thee faithfully. 

My deeply injured sire." 

And now what of the Father? ,< 

How fares it with him now ? 
Has age and sorrow deepened 

The care-lines on his brow? 



JU POETICAL PORTRAITS 

Pines he in gloom and sadness 

Over his absent son, 
Or has he (jiiite forgotten 

That wayward wandering one? 

No, he has not forgotten — 

Parents do not forget, 
Though children prove ungrateful. 

They fondly love them yet — 
This father's heart was tender, 

And oft he yearned to see 
The wayward lad that long ago 

He held upon his knee. 

''Where is my boy?" he murmured, 

''Ah ! how the months have fled 
Since from my side he wandered 

With proud defiant tread. 
Far, far away with strangers, 

Into temptation led, 
Sinning and sufif'ring it may be, 

And it mav be, is dead." 

But the Orient day is fading. 

The shadows longer grow. 
And sunset's crimson glories 

Set all the sky aglow. 
Far ofif, the father gazeth 

With fixed and constant gaze ; 
What object greets his vision? 

What meaneth this amaze? 

"It is ! it is !" he crieth, 
"It is my long lost son ! 

Sure as I live, he cometh. 
My own, my precious one." 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 14s 

Waited he not a moment 

To send the good news round — 
That he once dead is Hving; 

That he once lost is found. 

But, straightway as an arrow 

Speeds on its noiseless flight, 
The aged father hastened 

To meet his son that night. 
With arms outstretched, the father 

Embraced his erring child ; 
Repentance and forgiveness — 

Heaven saw the scene and smiled. 

"O, Father, I have greatly sinned 

'Gainst Heaven and in your sight." 
Loudly the father shouted 

To serv^ants left and right : 
"Bring forth the best robe for him, 

Put shoes upon his feet, 
A ring upon his finger, — 

The change shall be complete." 

"And spare you not the fatted calf. 

But let his blood be shed ; 
'Tis meet that we should kill it. 

For this my son was dead ; 
But now he is alive again — 

Was lost, but now is found. 
Hail ! and all hail ! let all unite 

To send the news around." 

But now the elder brother. 

Working all day afield, 
Comes in the twilight's gloaming. 

And lo ! the sight revealed, 



1^6 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

Lights flashing from the windows ; 

Music upon the air; 
And sounds of mirth, and dancing, 

And feasting everywhere. 

"What means this strange commotion 

From basement up to dome?" 
The servant quickly answered : 

''Your brother has come home ; 
Your truant, younger brother 

Is with us once again. 
Hence all this mirth and merriment 

Like sunshine after rain." 

Then was the elder brother 

By angry feelings stirred, 
The green-eyed vi\ov^^\^r jealousy 

His clearer vision blurred ; 
He could not, would not, enter, 

Nor did he care to see 
The brother thus returning 

In rags and poverty. 

Now word came to the father, 

Who sought the elder son, 
And earnestly entreated him 

To spare the erring one. 
But he replied : *'Thou knowest, 

I served thee many years, 
Nor ever wandered from thee 

To cause thee grief and tears." 

"And as to disobedience. 
Never have I transgressed ; 

But keeping thy commandments 
Have tried to do mv best ; 



POE TICAL POR TRAITS 1^7 

And, yet, thou never gavest me 

Even a fatted kid. 
That I might call my friends in, 

And feast as others did." 

"And now thy son returning 

Who hath thy living spent 
With harlots — thou art joyful. 

And seemingly content. 
With music and rejoicing 

The house is quickly filled, 
And for this hungry prodigal 

The fatted calf is killed." 

'*'My son," replied the father, 

"Ever art thou with me. 
And all I have about me 

Belongs as well to thee. 
'Tis meet we should make merry, 

And let good cheer abound, 
In that the dead is living — 

In that the lost is found." 

HONOR TO THE BRAVE. 

A Memorial Day Poem. 

Again we are marshalled, a "weaponless" army. 
With badges and banners and soul-stirring song. 

To scatter Spring flowers over loved ones of ours 
Who died for their country in days long agone. 

In marshland and moorland, by lakelet and river. 

In Northland and Southland, the Blue and the Grey, 

Discharged from life's service, now sleep on forever. 
Awaiting the call of the great judgment day. 



148 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

The earthquake may jar, and the cyclone may shatter, 
The comet may blaze in the blue heavens at night, 

The light rain may fall, or the white snowflake scatter. 
They hear not, they heed not, they see not the light. 

Heroic their death, and serene is their sleeping. 
For freedom they suffered, for freedom they bled ; 

And sentinel angels are strict vigils keeping 
'Round about all the graves of our patriot dead. 

Today as we tell to our children the story 
Of treason o'ermastered by valor and might, 

We'll teach them to weave into garlands of glory, 

Bright wreaths for the brave who went down in the 
fight. 

Then bring the sweet flowers, in their fragrance and 
beauty. 

And tenderly strew them each hero above ; 
They gave up their lives at the stern call of duty, 

And thus earned the right to our tributes of love. 

Rut while you thus scatter these beautiful flowers, 
Forg"et not the soldiers who sleep far and lone. 

Who fought as these fought for this fair land of ours, 
Who fell and were numbered among the unknown. 

Down into deep trenches how many wxre hurried, 
Their bodies yet warm with the life barely flown, 

On blood-reddened battle fields hastily buried. 
The pride of our nation, "our sainted unknown." 

And some died, you know, with but bare walls around 
them. 
Their weary limbs worn on a carpetless floor ; 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 14.9 

Slain by starvation, the death angel found them, 
And bore them away from life's shadowy shore. 

Dear friends, it is well that we cherish forever 
The memory of patriots so loyal and true. 

That nothing could tempt them their grand vows to 
sever, 
And thus prove them false to the Red, White and Blue. 

Shut in from the conflict by foemen surrounded, 
Their sad eyes saw never a stripe or a star, 

But with courage divine, and with faith firmly grounded, 
They waited for death or the end of the war. 

And friends, while we speak of the absent and near ones. 
The known and the unknown who fell far away ; 

We have in our midst just a few of the dear ones 
Who stood by our banner as loyal as they. 

They carried our banner where cannons did thunder. 
And bayonets gleamed in the light of the sun, 

Where death's gleaming knife severed life's cords asun- 
der. 
And war's swollen tide in its ghastliness run. 

Brave soldiers ! brave heroes ! we give you warm greet- 
ing. 

In darkness and danger your hearts were all true ; 
Our Great Nation's sentiments only repeating. 

May heaven's richest blessings be given to you. 

On the transfigured mount of our National glory, 
Your names shine as fair as the stars of the night ; 



I50 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

While tongues touched with fire thrill our heart with the 
story 
Of freedom's great struggle for God and the right. 

To our Grand Army Posts — mighty bulwarks of power — 

Imbedded so firm in American soil ; 
May their campfires burn brightly till life's closing hour 

Brings reward for their valor and rest from their toil. 

And now let us scatter these beautiful flowers, 
With hearts keeping time to love's tender refrain, 

Then breathe a farewell to those heroes of ours. 

And leave them to sleep 'neath the dew and the rain. 

"AT EVENTIDE." 

Daylight fadeth o'er the landscape, 
And the curtains of the evening 
Gently droop and fold about me ; 
Overhead the bright stars twinkle, 
Shining brighter as the shadows 
Denser grow, until they sparkle 
Like a crown of flashing diamonds 
In the azure vault of Heaven ; 
Hark ! there comes a far faint echo 
Of a song upon the night breeze, 
Not a sound can I distinguish. 
Nor an outline of the singer, 
But the notes are sweet and tender. 
Like the sighing of a zephyr, 
Like a strain from harp ^olian, 
Rising, falling, growing fainter, 
Dying in the shadowy distance, 
Silence reigns supreme, unbroken. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 151 



Fleet winged flit the flying moments, 
'Till from some lone village steeple 
Eight o'clock is tolled, then silence 
Once more mingles with the darkness, 
And the night dews thicker falling 
Warn me to forego my musing; 
Still I linger for the pale moon 
O'er the eastern hills is rising, 
Higher, higher in the heavens, 
Slowly up its star strewn pathway, 
Till its face above the mountains. 
Smiles upon the trembling shadows, 
Lighting all the darkened places 
With the glory of fair Eden, 
, When her sinless bowers were radiant 
With the smile of God's approval. 

ONE TALENT. 

•'Only one talent," the servant said, 
And his brow was clouded o'er. 

"So many talents the Master had 
In his precious golden store, 

And he has given me only one. 

When He might have given me more." 

**Only one talent, and that so small 
That it seems of little w^orth, 

I do not value the gift at all, 
I care not who gave it birth; 

I'll fold it up in a napkin 
And bury it in the earth." 

So the servant hid the talent fair, 

Buried it low in the dust. 
Turned quickly away and left it there. 



152 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

The Master's most sacred trust, 
Left it with never an iitter'd prayer, 
To He in the ground and rust. 

Alas ! how many there are today 
Who're doing the self same thing; 

Hiding their one lone talent away. 
Spurning the gift of their King, 

Saying, as plain as words can say, 
"I'm ashamed of God's offering. " 

They reason if He had given me more. 
They would have been faithful then ; 

Would have labored hard to increase their store, 
Perhaps would have gained him ten, 

So strong are pride and vanity 
In the hearts of fallen men ! 

Is it not better to do our best, 
Than to fold our hands and say : 

"We will spend our time in idleness 
And throw our talent away ;" 

Knowing the while that God will come 
To reckon Avith us some day? 

O, it is better to work and trust 

Though our talent indeed be small ; 

For the Master is ever kind and just 
And he will reward us all, 

If in His word forever we trust, 
And honor his loving call. 

And we shall find in the eventide 

Of our life's eventful day 
That faith was better than doubt and pride. 

And work was better than play; 
And we shall then be satisfied 

With the Master's own sweet way. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 153 



SUBMISSION. 

Dear Lord, upon my bed of pain, 

Through all the lonely night I lie, 
While slow the hours come and wane, 
'Til breaks the blessed dawn again 

Along the Eastern sky ; 
Night after night, day after day, 
So steals this transient life away. 

Dear Lord, if I should die tonight. 

While shadows wrap the earth around, 
Should life's fair morn break on my sight, 
With its sweet soul entrancing light, 

And heart subduing sound, 
Mv thankful heart to thee would raise 
An everlasting song of praise. 

Dear Lord, if thou shouldst deem it best 

To raise me from this bed of pain, 
To light once more the darkening west. 
To hear for life my faint request 

And make me well again; 
Still will I glad and grateful be. 
And consecrate that life to Thee. 

"THE TIDE OF THE YEARS." 

Flowing ever amain is this wonderful tide, 
Now narrow and deep, and now shallow and wide ; 
Now lashed into foam by the wild winds at war ; 
Then calm and unrufifled anear and afar. 
Sometimes in the shadow, sometimes in the sun. 
Yet westward forever its current doth run. 



154 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

There are many frail barques on this out-going tide, 

And many disasters their courses abide. 

Some float on serenely thro' shallows and deeps, 

On, on without signal, past lowlands and steeps; 

Unmindful of shoals, unappalled by the gale, 

By sunlight, by starlight, right onward they sail. 

Others tremble and toss on a wave warring main, 
With sails and masts groaning like spirits in pain; 
Driven out of their course by the hurricane's might, 
'Til in the dim distance they vanish from sight. 
I stand on the shore of this wonderful stream, 
And oft of the fate of the mariners dream ; 
I watch the white sails drifting constantly by, 
I give friendly hail, but there comes no reply ; 
Silent, and phantom-like, onward they glide. 
Borne steadily on by this magical tide. 

A feeling of sadness steals over my soul, 

A deep settled grief that I cannot control ; 

For I know that the sails speeding down this wide main 

Will never, no never, turn backward again. 

They will carry their tribute of love and of tears 

Forever, away down the tide of the years. 

Whither drifteth this fleet that forever floats past ? 

And where will the anchor be finally cast? 

Where in the dim distance that stretcheth away 

Under low arching skies, thro' the mist and the spray, 

Will the sky and the water be blended in one. 

The tide reach the shore and the voyage be done? 

O, far, far away lies a harbor serene, 
And many white sails in that haven are seen ; 
In summer and winter, by night and by day. 
This refuge lies open to welcome alway 
The ships that appear on the inflowing tide. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 155 

Seeking anchorage where they must ever abide. 

'Tis the harbor of age, where the worn sail is furled, 

And the mariner breathes a farewell to the world. 

Where the cross he has carried thro' sunshine and rain 

Is taken from him with its burden of pain. 

And he rests evermore from the doubts and the fears 

Which took passage with him down the tide of the years. 

"ALONE WITH MY SAVIOR." 

When I am alone with my savior, 

In secret communion with him, 
And earth like the stars in the dawning 

In the light of His light groweth dim, 
Then the cares of the world that freighted 

My life with their burdens of woe. 
Are soothed into rest, like a babe on the breast 

Of the mother who loveth it so, 
Then peace like a mystical river, 

Flows into my soul, 'til to me 
There cometh a vision of Heaven, 

The throne and the clear crystal sea. 

When I am alone with my Savior, 

My doubts they all vanish away ; 
I plead with the faith of a prophet, 

Rejoicing in Him night and day ; 
I wonder that ever the tempter. 

Could cause me one moment to doubt; 
The way grows so bright, and the burden so light 

That for joy my glad heart crieth out. 
O, its precious to be with my Savior, 

To feel his sweet presence near. 
That even when danger menaces, 

I have no occasion to fear. 



156 POETICAL PORTRAITS 



Well, I shall soon dwell with my Savior, 

My pathway is leading to Him, 
I have walked a long way in the valley, 

Where the light has shone feeble and dim. 
But I see that my way groweth brighter, 

The uplands are coming in view, 
To the sights and the sounds of the valley, 

I shall soon bid a final adieu. 
The river of death once so mighty, 

Now a mere little rivulet seems. 
Bordering earth's shadowy lowlands, 

And the land of the soul's sweetest dreams. 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 

When the evening shadows gather 

And the gentle night dews fall, 
When the birds in thrilling chorus, 

Sound their sweet and plaintive call, 
When the angels of the evening 

Trim the lamps in Heaven's blue dome. 
Then the sweetest song of mortals 

Is the song of "Home, sweet home." 

Out upon the air it floateth 

And its echoes linger long. 
While we gather inspiration 

From the spirit of the song ; 
Day may bring us care and sorrow, 

As with weary feet we roam, 
Evening brings a balm and blessing 

With the tho't of ''Home, sweet home." 



POETICAL PORTRAITS i^y 



"Home, sweet home !" alas for many 

These dear words are meaningless, 
And the glad refrain outwelling 

Has no power to soothe or bless ; 
Once to them it sounded sweetly 

At the closing of the day, 
Like the notes of angels singing 

In their bright home far away. 

But there came a subtle tempter 

Creeping through love's fairest bowers, 
Clouding all the golden sunshine, 

Casting blight upon the flowers, 
Floating in the jeweled wine cup. 

Sparkling in the liquid foam. 
Like a bird of evil omen. 

Ever cursing "Home, sweet home." 

One by one the roses faded 

From the wife and mother's cheek. 
And the children, sorrow shaded, 

Day by day grew pale and weak ; 
And the husband, and the father 

Late at night the streets would roam 
Knowing nothing, caring nothing 

For the love of "Home, sweet home." 

This is not a fancy picture. 

Neither is it overdrawn ; 
Hearts are breaking all around us. 

Waiting, watching for the dawn ; 
All around them droopeth darkness. 

Not one star bedecks the dome ; 
Bitter memories only waken 

When we sing of "Home, sweet home.'' 



IS8 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

And, my friends, I blush to tell you 

That this nation, proud and great, 
Shields by law this awful monster 

That has made them desolate ; 
But the light of justice shineth 

From God's lighthouse evermore 
And an angel hand is kindling 

Beacon lights along the shore. 

Hark ! I hear the distant tramping 

Of a brave and fearless band 
Who have written on their banner 

"God, and Home, and Native Land ;" 
And I hear an anthem ringing, 

Faint and far the echoes roam, 
And the song that they are singing 

Is the song of "Home, sweet home." 

ELIJAH'S TRANSLATION. 

Long had the prophet prophesied 

Unheeded by his race. 
Warning the people of their sins 

With persevering grace. 
Long had he waited, wept and prayed, 

And sorrowed sad and sore, 
Yet hopefully and undismayed 

He labored more and more. 

Youth's sunny morn had passed away; 

Manhood's bright years had fled ; 
Yet strong in faith from day to day 

His soul was comforted. 
The world had clamored for his life, 

Because he testified 
Against the violence and strife. 

He saw on everv side. 



POETICAL PORl RAITS 159 

"O Israel, thou art defiled, 

Thy sins like mountains rise, 
By idol gods thou art beguiled, 

Why wilt thou not be wise? 
O Israel, obey thy God, — 

Jehovah, Lord of all — 
Lest 'neath his swift avenging rod. 

Thy glory fade and fall." 

Thus cried the prophet, till at last 

From Heaven came this decree. 
Thy pain and peril now are past, 

Elijah, thou art free; 
No more the hills of Palestine, 

Thy weary feet shall roam ; 
No more on earth shalt thou be seen 

For thou art going home. 

Then as near Jordan's sacred tide, 

The weary prophet strayed; 
Elisha walking by his side, 

With heart most sore afraid ; 
There came a noise of chariots, 

A sound of rushing wings, 
A fiery whirlwind swooping down 

On sublunary things. 

Farewell, thou Prophet of the Lord, 

Breathe thou to earth farewell ! 
Go and receive thy great reward. 

Go with thy God to dwell. 
A momentary flash of light 

Through Heaven's open'd door. — 
The vision vanishes from sight, 

Elijah's work is o'er. 



i6o POETICAL PORTRAITS 



THE SNOW. 

O the snow, the terrible snow, 
Coming to earth in a whirl and a blow. 
Drifting the lanes with its billows of white, 
Hiding the fences and highways from sight, 
Biting the fingers and stinging the toe ; 
Rolicsome, frolicsome, troublesome snow. 

O the snow, the venturesome snow, 

In to all places determined to go. 

In thro' the windows and doors left ajar. 

Into the crevices, near and afar, 

In like a raider, no quarter you show, 

Lightfooted, whitefooted, swiftfooted snow. 

O the snow, the unwelcome snow, 
Like a white winding sheet lying so low, 
Clothing the earth in a symbol of death ; 
Nature oppressed by thee, holdeth her breath. 
Helpless she waiteth for spring gales to blow. 
Bringing release from the bonds of the snow. 

O the snow, the beautiful snow, 

Why do I mock thee, and slander thee so, 

As earthward in grandeur thy white flakes descend. 

Dost thou not come as a servant and friend? 

Type of that purity God's angels know — 

Beautiful, dutiful, wonderful snow. 

"ALONE." 

I'm lonely, and I know not why ; 

The sun shines bright in cloudless sky; 
Dear friends are near with open hand 

To aid me if I help demand. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS i6i 

The autumn blight is not yet here 

To stamp on all its impress drear; 
The flowers in gay and festive dress 

Still bloom in springtime loveliness. 

The birds in plumage bright and gay, 

Carol the fleeting hours away; 
Now restfully, now on the wing, 

Their happy songs I hear them sing. 

All nature seems in joyous mood, 

Seeking and giving only good ; 
Bright, sunnyfaced, and shadowless, 

A counterpart of Heaven's own peace ; 

And yet my heart is sad today, 

And shadows steal across my way ; 
The south wind hath a plaintive tone, 

And seems to say alone, alone. 

My thoughts go wandering far and wide. 
Backward adown life's troubled tide. 

And forms and faces, bright and fair. 
Precious to me beyond compare. 

Appear and disappear at will. 

Most strangely real and life-like still ; 

Though many years a veil hath drawn 
Between me and those dear ones gone. 

Oh loved for whom my soul doth yearn. 

Could you in fleshly shape return? 
Could I but clasp your hands once more, 

As in the sainted days of yore? 



i62 POETICAL PORTRAITS 



Could I but press your lips again, 

Whose pressure eased my heart's dull pain ; 

No greater pleasure would I crave 
This side of Jordon's chilly wave. 

But no, the hands I clasped of yore 
Will touch my own on earth no more ; 

The lips I kissed in love's own trust 
Have turned again to scentless dust. 

And thus my heart is sad today; 

And shadows steal across my way ; 
The low wind hath a plaintive tone, 

And seems to say, alone, alone. 

AN APPEAL TO AUTUMN. 

Dearest Autumn do not crowd upon the Summer, 

Let it linger just a little, if it will ; 
Might thou not be for once a tardy comer, 

And later on thy mission work fulfill? 

Let the fragrant flowers awhile enjoy their sweetness, 
Do not touch them just at present with decay, 

So beautiful and bright in their completeness, 
We'll sorrow when they fade and pass away. 

And the maples and the beeches so inviting 
Cozy shelter from the sun and from the rain ; 

The hearts of both the young and old delighting, 
Let their green robes untarnished yet remain. 

Thou canst deck them by and by with gold and crimson. 
Thou canst paint each leaf in colors bright and gay. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 163 

Then gently loose the hold with which they're clinging, 
And let them in their glory pass away. 

After thee will come the Winter stern and hoary, 
To bury all the leaves and blossoms fair, 

To take from Nature's head her crown of glory, 

And leave the fields and woodlands brown and bare. 

There's so little brightness in this world of sorrow, 

It is very sad to see it fade and die, 
Sweet flowers that bloom today may by tomorrow 

Low at our feet in hopeless ruin lie. 

Then dear Autumn do not crowd upon the Summer, 

Let it linger just a little if it will ; 
Be thou to us for once a tardy comer. 

And later on thy sad, sad task fulfill. 

A WOODLAND STREAM. 

Near where I dwxll, a tiny stream, 

With many deeps and shallows, 
Winds on and on, a silver beam 

Through alder clumps and willows. 

I mark its murm'ring waters fall 
Through golden sunHght glancing; 

Its silver wavelets over all • ' 

Among the white stones dancing. 

O, how I love that little brook, 

So quiet and so lowly; 
In sunlight fair or shady nook. 

Its presence seemeth holy. 



164. POETICAL PORTRAITS 



Dear little stream ! flow on and on ; 

Thy clear voice ever ringing, 
As though the angels had come down, 

And stood beside me singing. 

The frost chain soon will bind thy breast 
"With cords of crystal brightness ; 

And winter soothe thy voice to rest 
'Neath robe of snowy whiteness. 

"SHADOW AND SUBSTANCE." 

"O mother," cried Effie, ''please come to the door 
And see these bright clouds in the sky, 

I never saw any so pretty before 
They look like a city on high." 

''There are towers and domes, I can see them so plain, 

Like sentinels stately and tall. 
And there where the sun sets the shadows aflame 

I can see the outline of a wall." 

"O the picture is lovely, as lovely can be ; 

What a pity it cannot be true ! 
But, mother, the clouds are departing, and see 

What a wonderful background of blue." 

Then her mother said, "Effie, the picture is true ; 

There is a great city on high. 
And oftimes at evening its shadows we view. 

In the beautiful clouds in the sky. 

"When the Savior was here, as a mortal on earth, 

He told of that city so fair. 
And told of bright mansions of mfinite worth, 

That He for His loved would prepare." 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 165 



*'And it will not be long if we trust in his word, 
When the clouds far away shall be rolled ; 

The saints shall ascend with their glorified Lord 
To reign in that city of gold." 

"And, EfBe, the children will be with them there, 
Among tlie blood washed and forgiven. 

For Jesus in love to them all did declare : — 
'That of such was the Kingdom of Heaven.' " 

PLANTING THE TREES. 

Planting the trees, 'tis the season for planting, 
God has ordained it and taught us the need. 

And if with bright sheaves we would come with rejoicing, 
We must go forth planting and sowing the seed. 

Planting the trees in the beautiful May-time, 

Tender and fragrant and fair to behold. 
Fresh from the virgin soil, just as God gave them, 

Planting them deep in the rich earthern mould. 

Planting the trees, what a lesson it teaches, 
Of sowing the seed in the minds of the youth ; 

Upward and onward the influence reaches. 
Borne by the spirit of virtue and truth. 

Planting the trees that w411 send out their rootlets 

Further and firmer as time rolls away. 
Lender the grassy turf, secretly, silently, 

Subjects of nature and prompt to obey. 

Planting the trees that will shoot forth their branches. 
Kissed by the sunlight, the dew, and the rain, 

Harps for the touch of invisible fingers, 

Cheering our sadness and soothing our pain. 



1 66 POETICAL PORTRAITS 



Planting the trees where the wild birds will carol 
Through the glad hours of the days yet to be, 

Warbling the songs that "Our Father" hath taught them. 
Morning and evening so blithesome and free. 

Planting the trees that will stand in their beauty, 
Long after we shall have passed to our rest, 

Sentinels faithful to love and to duty 
Ever and forever doing their best. 

Planting the trees, may God speed our endeavors. 
Blessing the work of our "Arbor day" bands. 

Till sunshine and shade blending sweetly together. 
Our country becometh the pride of all lands. 

LONG AGO. 



IvOng ago the earth seemed brighter 

Than it does today, 
Pain less sharp, and crosses lighter. 

In the far away. 
Spring morns had a sweeter fragrance 

In the days of yore. 
And the sun threw richer radiance 

Over wave and shore. 

Long ago my friends seemed dearer. 

Truer than today ; 
To my heart, they gathered nearer. 

In familiar way ; 
I could tell them all my sorrow. 

As it came to me, 
And the needed comfort borrow 

From their sympathy. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 167 

Long ago, alas that ever, 

All its light should fade, 
And its joys, forgotten never. 

In the grave be laid ; 
That those sacred scenes and places 

Are beyond my ken, 
And the sweet and sainted faces 

Never smile again. 

A MORNIXG IN SPRING. 

Night's vigils o'er ; their duty done, 
The stars of Heaven, one by one. 
Grow pale before the coming sun. 

The shadows that have veiled the night. 
Alarmed at the increasing light. 
Begin to plume their wings for flight. 

A solitary bird-note falls 

Like music through the leafy halls. 

Then seems to wait for answering calls. 

Only a moment, then a song 

Of thrilling sweetness rolls along. 

As though it would its notes prolong, 

'Til other sleeping birds should wake, 
And their part in the chorus take, 
Vocal the sweet spring morn to make. 

O sacred hour, — the dawn of day, — 
When robins sing their roundelay, 
And shadows shift and flee awav, 



1 68 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

When later from its secret place, 
The mild sun shows its genial face, 
In blessing on the realms of space, 

When to his toil the workman goes. 
Brave-hearted from his night's repose. 
To grapple with life's cares and woes. 

O precious morns of early spring, 
In bursting buds, and blossoming, 
In birds that flit on tireless wing, 

In songs they warble sweet and low ; 
We wander back to long ago, 
To happy days we used to know, 

When life was like the balmy spring, 
And spirit voices seemed to sing 
Their songs of love's own welcoming. 

RECLAIMED. 

He was simply a common drunkard, 

One of a numerous throng. 
Facing toward death and destruction, 

And recklessly hasting along. 
The neighbors said, ''Oh, what a pity, 

Just think of his children and wife, 
No mortal can tell how they suffer, 

And he is the curse of their life." 

But none of them pitied the dnmkard. 
Not at all, the miserable sot, — 

He was but a curse to creation, 
A stench in its nostrils, a blot ; 



POETICAL PORTRAITS i6g 



He would doubtless drink and keep drinking, 
'Til death put an end to his race, 

Then leave for his friends and relations 
A fortune — of shame and disgrace. 

And what of the victim thus walking 

So near to the verge of despair ; 
Sighed he for the blessings of freedom, 

For the love of the pure and the fair? 
Or was he so fully degraded, 

So low burned the bright altar fires, 
That he had no more high aspirations, 

Or knew any holy desires? 

No, into the mind of that outcast, 

Came flashes of light and of love. 
And yearnings and hopes for the future. 

As pure as the stars up above. 
Full many a strong resolution 

He formed to reform, but alas. 
It only resulted in failure, 

So great was the power of the glass. 

None knew of his struggles for freedom. 

His efforts so useless and vain. 
Save God, the all knowing and loving, 

Who saw him go wandering amain. 
He saw him, and pitied his weakness, 

And send to him friends in his need, 
Who labored and prayed for the drunkard, 

And sowed in his heart precious seed. 

Soon a wonderful change came o'er him. 
The scales from his eyes fell away. 

The shadows of night turned to morning, 
The morn of a bright, peaceful day ; 



ijo POETICAL PORTRAITS 

Strong fetters of appetite broken, 
No longer a slave, but a son. 

He kneeled at the cross, crying, "Jesus, 
Not my will, but Thy will be done." 

Some heard him, and smiled in derision. 

Some heard him, and held him in doubt. 
And said, ''He begins well, but surely 

Such a weakling can never hold out ; 
He will run for a time very nicely. 

But will-power with him is so small, 
As soon as he faces temptation, 

You see he will stumble and fall." 

But some said, "To God be the glory. 

Let us do the best that we can. 
To shield him, and save him from falling. 

And make of him once more a man." 
So time hurried on, but the weakling. 

Grew stronger, and stronger, each day. 
And sought far and near for the lost ones. 

Whose feet had been tempted to stray. 

Ah ! many and many a victim. 

He rescued from rum's vile embrace, 
And brought him in triumph to Jesus, 

To tell of His infinite grace. 
And still he works on for the Master, 

A faithful and dutiful son, 
And we trust will work on till he heareth. 

That grand commendation "well done." 

Around us today there are drunkards, 
Who walk very near to the grave. 

Appealing to us, and beseeching 
To pity, and rescue, and save. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 171 

I plead with you loyal Good Templars, 
Look out for the wrecks on the strand, 

And with the great life boat of temperance. 
Work faithful to bring them to land. 

CHILDHOOD DAYS. 

The dear, dead days of my childhood 

Are only a memory now; 
Yet dreams of the farm and the wildwood — 

The sweet blossoming apple bough, 
The house and the barn, grey and olden. 

The brook with its waters so bright, 
The meadows with buttercups golden 

The pastures with daisies so white. 

The walks in the moonlight together, 

With friends that my heart loved so well ; 
So happy I hardly knew whether 

'Twas Katie, or Susie, or Nell, 
Who set the most joy bells to ringing, 

Or gave me the purest delight, 
As to the soft hand I was clinging. 

On a musical midsummer nig-ht. 

But the memory is all that is left me 

Of days that will come nevermore, 
For time in its flight hath bereft me 

Of friends and companions of yore. 
Youth and its bright scenes are behind me. 

Sweet springtime of life, thou art gone, 
Grey hairs 'mid the gold oft remind me 

That old age is fast creeping on. 



172 POETICAL PORTRAITS 



A CHILD'S QUESTION. 

*'Mamma," said a fair-hair'd darling, 
As the shadows round them fell, 

"Couldn't it be always daytime, 
Wouldn't it be just as well?" 

"When the sun is shining brightly, 
And the birds are on the wing. 

Then my heart is full of music, 
Then I love to sit and sing." 

"But when evening comes, dear mamma, 
With its dark and gloomy shade. 

And I cannot see the sunshine. 
Then I feel almost afraid." 

"If the sun would shine forever, 
As it shines from morn till night 

Earth would seem so much like Heaven, 
Where God says 'tis always light." 

"Darling," said the tender mother, 
As she kissed the troubled face, 

"God knows best about the darkness, 
We must trust his love and grace." 

"If we trust our Heavenly Father, 
And are sure to do the right, 

There is nothing that will harm us 
In the dark or in the light." 

"Could the sunlight smile forever, 
We should weary of the sight. 

Pining for the welcome shadows 
And the glory of the night." 



POETICAL PORTRAITS lys 



A BIT OF ADVICE. 

In this mortal life with its toil and its strife, 

Its rough thorns and briers far reaching, 
Its sad doubts and fears running on thro' the years, 

I pray you give heed to my teaching ; 
Remember my friends, we are all in the flesh, 

And each one by Adam a brother. 
So let charity fall like a mantle on all. 

And don't be too hard on each other. 

Our aches and our pains, while the mortal remains, 

There may be no way of escaping, 
The physical man lieth under the ban, 

Its laws the Creator is shaping ; 
But the ills of the mind, how often we find 

Are easy to fan or to smother, 
We add or subtract by a word or an act, 

Then don't be too hard on each other. 

Show kindness to all, both the great and the small, 

Be manly in word and in action, 
And never go round like a knave or a clown 

To stir up contention or faction. 
A task we shall find our own business to mind. 

So let us not burden a brother. 
But give each one a chance his cause to advance, 

And be not so hard on each other. 

THE NEW CRUSADE. 

With giant strides there cometh 

A glorious crusade ; 
Not by brave knights in armor. 

Or war-decked cavalcade; 



17^ POETICAL PORTRAITS 

No fiery steeds shall trample 
The weak and helpless down, 

Or bugles sound their warning, 
Where sentried earthworks frown. 

No blood-stained banners waving, 

Shall loyal hosts inspire, 
Nor cannon's dumb lips speaking, 

Belch forth in sheeted fire ; 
No blood of fallen heroes 

Shall earth's fair bosom stain, 
Or moon or stars light dimly 

The faces of the slain. 

The conflict now impending 

Is not for wealth or fame. 
Or coveted possessions. 

Or throne, or titled name ; 
The forces swiftly gathering. 

Have heard God's clarion call, 
To lift the hand for native land 

Against King Alcohol. 

For weary years we've waited, 

In grief of hope deferred. 
For some heroic champion 

To speak the magic word 
That should arouse the people 

To bravely dare and do, 
And give this cruel monster, 

A second Waterloo. 

A Joshua or a Gideon, 
With iron will and hand ; 

A Moses leading rum's poor slaves. 
Unto the promised land. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 175 

But vain thus far our waiting, 

God's ways are not our own, 
He will inspire the people. 

And He will lead, alone. 

The nation's liquor interest. 

Has been allowed to grow, 
Until today it threatens 

Our speedy overthrow; 
It is a deadly enemy, 

Relentless, fierce and strong; 
Its poison breath betokens death. 

Where ere it moves along. 

A foe of truth and justice, 

And honest government. 
It feeds the rich on avarice. 

The poor on discontent ; 
Look at the past and present, 

As you have light to see. 
Then tell me, I beseech you, 

What will our future be ? 

The days when honest statesmen. 

Were always in demand. 
Sought out to fill the offices, 

And rule our honored land, 
Are past, and politicians 

Go down on bended knee. 
And plead and pray for offices, 

With good round salary. 

Not now by worth and fitness. 

Are high positions won. 
But rum, and brass, and boodle, 

Elect their favorite son ; 



176 POETICAL PORTRAITS 



So strangely mixed is politics, 
Good men retire and say, 

Too vile a den for decent men. 
Let boodlers rule the day. 

In dynamite explosions 

Fine buildings upward go. 
Death and destruction mingling 

In comedies of woe ; 
Gigantic combinations 

In many marts of trade 
Like greedy vultures fatten 

On wrecks their power have made. 

Meanwhile the toiling masses, 

Ruled by monopoly, 
In leagues and labor unions, 

Unite for mastery; 
The Homestead's bloody riots, 

The strike at Buffalo, 
Are samples of the conflicts 

That fill the land with woe. 

And now while law and order 

Are everywhere assailed. 
And all strict party remedies 

To help the case have failed, 
Where shall w^e look for succor, 

Or where for aid apply, 
Where find a friendly refuge 

Until the storm rolls by? 



We know that prohibition 
Would cure a host of ills 

In closing up forever 

The baneful murder mills ; 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 177 

That with our fair land rescued 

From rum's destructive bhght, 
Both capital and labor 

Would cease their useless fight. 

That shadowed homes would brighten 

And fainting hearts grow strong, 
And right obtain the mastery 

Over oppressive wrong ; 
That temperance and religion, 

United heart and hand. 
Would bring back Eden glory 

To this devoted land. 

That rum-bribed politicians ; 

Would superceded be 
By patriotic statesmen, 

And politics be free 
From falsehood, fraud and drunkenness, 

And laws to punish crime 
Would be sustained, and justice gained. 

As in the olden time. 

With keen prophetic vision 

I glance beyond the ken 
Of selfish politicians 

And weak-kneed temperance men, 
Far o'er the shining uplands. 

Where temperance hosts shall meet 
King Alcohol's proud army. 

And give it sore defeat. 

Though appetite and avarice 

Unite both heart and hand, 
The zeal and might of truth and right 

They cannot long withstand. . 



lyS POE TICAL FOR TRAITS 

Though sore may be the conflict, 

Yet glorious it will be 
When from the curse of Alcohol 

Our country shall be free. 

I know the weak and faithless 

Will plod their wonted ways, 
Blind to the light that shines so bright 

Deaf to the cry we raise. 
The rallying notes of victory 

Their deaf ears will not hear. 
Long years of leagued oppression 

Have made them slaves to fear. 

So long the liquor traffic, 

In arrogance and pride, 
Has held control o'er mind and soul. 

And God and man defied, 
That thousands in submission 

Have bowed the suppliant knee 
And dare not aid the "new crusade" 

To gain supremacy. 

But though some fear and falter, 

And many sneer or frown, 
Heroic hosts are rising 

To put intemperance down. 
The pointers on the dial 

Are at the hour of noon, 
And God's great clock is tolling 

The doom of the saloon. 

The Prohibition party 

Were early in the fight. 
And hurled against its ramparts 

Their ballots clean and white. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 179 

This grand cold water army, 

A vanguard true and brave, 
Will press the fight in loyal might, 

A temperance tidal wave. 

The "Woman's Temperance Union," 

Two hundred thousand strong, 
Are in the field, and will not yield 

While right is slave to wrong. 
The histories of nations, 

Down from Earth's morning time, 
Record no holier sacrifice 

Or courage more sublime. 

With pure and true devotion. 

As love and faith inspires, 
The women of America 

Will guard their altar fires ; 
There their afifections center, 

There their best joys have birth, 
And there the dearest treasures 

That come to them on earth. 

Too long the cruel riim fiend. 

With deep satanic hate. 
Has sought home's sacred altars. 

And made them desolate. 
Where flowers in peerless beauty 

Should woo celestial forms. 
And love and peace together 

Bar out all strifes and storms 

The fairest flowers have withered, 

As frost blight withers all, 
And woe and strife, embitter'd life, 

And spread a shadowy pall. 



i8o POETICAL PORTRAITS 

To palace as to hovel, 

In city as in town, 
By day and night, rum's awful blight 

Forever settles down. 

No wonder then that women 

Have joined the new crusade, 
Or, that they pray, by night and day. 

That God our cause would aid. 
All honor should be given 

These soldiers brave and true — 
This band who come to fight for home — 

The W. C. T. U. 

And there are other forces 

Whose banners float in air ; 
The great ''Good Templar" army 

Is mustering everywhere ; 
Like golden grain upspringing. 

Their numbers multiply. 
Bound to be in ''the good time" 

That's coming by and by. 

There are so many forces 

I cannot name them all, 
They come from north, south, east and west, 

To fight 'gainst Alcohol. 
The grand Endeavor movement 

Is marvelous we know. 
And helps to swell the numbers 

That seeks its overthrow. 

But while the temperance army 

Grows stronger day by day, 
As new recruits haste to it, 

All eager for the fray, 



POETICAL PORTRAITS i8i 

My soul asks this great question. 

Where do the churches stand ? 
Do they all aid the new crusade 

With loyal heart and hand? 

Where are the chosen watchmen 

Who stand on Zion's wall, 
And blow the Gospel trumpet 

And sound the warning call ? 
Each herald of salvation, 

With strongest faith and zeal, 
Should sound from every pulpit 

A mighty trumpet peal. 

O brother ! I entreat you, 

Look o'er this rum-cursed land 
And see the sin and misery 

And death on every hand ; 
Behold the shadows deepen, 

Hear sorrow's plaintive cry ; 
Feel if yoii can the anguish 

Where sad hearts pine and die. 

Are you the truth withholding. 

That God would have men hear, 
Or of your high-toned brethren 

Do you yet stand in fear? 
Does some time-honored party 

Your vote and influence crave. 
Say, are you God's bold freeman. 

Or are you man's weak slave ? 

You have it in your power 

To stem this purple tide. 
And get a glorious victory. 

To turn on Israel's side. i 



i82 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

The sharp sword of the Spirit, 
If wielded left and right, 

Would cut down every barrier 
And put the foe to flight. 

brothers ! brothers ! brothers ! 
You know your duty well ; 

You know that souls, blood-ransomed, 
Are drifting down to hell ; 

Yes, they are drifting past you, 
Some in their manhood's prime. 

Some in the dismal gloaming 
Of life's sad evening time. 

Come, stand with me, my brother, 

And watch that wreck-strewn tide ; 
Hear you no shrieks of anguish, 

Where hope has waned and died? 
See you no dim eyes peering 

Into the future dark, 
Hear you no cry for succor, 

From some frail sinking bark ? 

By ail your dreams of Heaven 

And hopes of rich reward. 
When you your sheaves shall ofYer 

Unto your King and Lord, 
When you account shall render 

Of earthly stewardship, 
"When from your soul God's justice. 

All covering shall strip, 

1 warn you, O ! I warn you. 

To give God's truth free course ; 
To lift His mighty hammer. 
And bring it down with force, 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 183 

Not on the heads, but on the hearts 

And consciences of men, 
Till the Spirit's inward burning, 

Revive them once again. 

Tell them that God would have them 

Begin to fall in line, 
And let the light of temperance 

In all its glory shine ; 
The light of total abstinence, 

Of vote, and voice and pen, 
Then earth will soon hold jubilee. 

And heaven w^ill say Amen. 

CRITICISED. 

I was sitting one day in my study, 

The children were out at their play, 
And wife at a newly cut garment. 

Was busily stitching away. 
No sound broke the silence around me. 

Save a bird whose sweet song I could hear, 
As it sw^ung to and fro on the lilacs. 

And poured out its notes, full and clear. 

I was writing a sermon, and clearly 

The outlines appeared one by one. 
And I thought to myself, by tomorrow. 

This sermon will surely be done. 
Just then the study door opened, 

"A caller to see you," wife said ; 
And in walked a dignified lady, 

With a smile and a nod of her head. 



184. POETICAL PORTRAITS 

'*I hope, sir, I'm not intruding." 

"No, not in the least," I replied, 
"Be seated, and if I can serve you. 

Your wishes shall not be denied." 
"Oh, its nothing so very important, 

No favor which you can bestow, 
I called in regard to some rumors, 

That really I think you should know." 

"I hope you won't take it unkindly, 

Nor feel for a moment cast down, 
Of course you can't keep folks from talking. 

Nor stories from going around." 
"Oh, no !" I replied, "as for anger, 

I always did mean to be slow. 
And as for my feelings, why, bless you. 

They were crucified long, long ago." 

"Well then," said the lady, "your preaching 

I am sure we can all understand, 
And yet they do say 'twould be better 

To preach without paper, off-hand. 
That is, some are in favor of that way. 

And others are sure you do best 
When you write out your sermons, and give them 

More studied and pleasing address." 

"Of course they all should be suited. 

For you know they attend church and pay, 
And so you should manage it somehow. 

To let them all have their own w^ay. 
Then too, in regard to your manners, 

Some think you a little too plain, 
They would have you a little more stylish, 

Though of course not conceited or vain." 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 185 



"A little more dignified bearing, 

A sprightlier step on the street, 
Your head elevated a trifle, 

And not looking down at your feet." 
''Some think you are not very cheerful, 

They think it's a minister's place, 
Tho' he carries a grief in his bosom, 

To carry a smile on his face. 

But I see that the subject annoys you, 

I am sorry my words should give pain, 
I am sure I hope you will prosper. 

And your labor not prove to be vain." 
''But I tell you the truth, it's expected 

That ministers everywhere, 
Should be about as near perfect. 

As perfect can be, I declare ! 

I think it is better to give them 

A list of the faults now and then. 
For it serves to humble their spirits ;" — - 

To this I responded, "Amen !" 
"It does serve to keep a man humble 

To give him a lash or a goad, 
And if his burdens are heavy, 

It's not best to lighten the load. 
Or help him a little, but, madam. 

Allow me to say in reply, 
That, as to a state of perfection. 

It belongs to the 'sweet by and by.' " 

"And if ministers really were perfect, 
As many would have them to be, 

They'd ascend to that beautiful Eden, 
Where all from earth's frailties are free. 



1 86 POETICAL PORTRAITS 



"And now," said I, *Xady, well knowing 
Your kindness and kindly intent, 

Allow me to counsel you briefly, 
And do not my counsel resent." 

"A minister is only human ; 

As long as he clings to this life 
Perfection won't come to him wholly, 

Nor yet to his children or wife." 
"The sooner you cease to expect it 

The better it surely will be. 
The more you will pity his weakness 

And the less of his faults you will see. 

Let him work every day in the harness 

That seems to befit the best, 
Be patient and kind and forbearing, 

And God will attend to the rest." 
Tears came to her eyes as she faltered, 

"Fm sorry I talked in that way, 
I feel just like begging your pardon" — 

"Don t do it," said I, "Good day." 



THE RAINDROP. 

It lay upon the drooping vines, 

Unseen by mortal eyes, 
A little fairy visitor 

Descended from the skies. 
But suddenly a sunbeam kissed 

The sleeping raindrop there, 
And instantly it was transformed, 

And sparkled fresh and fair. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 187 

No treasure from a golden mine, 

More beautiful could be ; 
It rivaled e'en the jewel'd stars, 

Or pearls from 'neath the sea, 
A moment thus it shone so fair, 

Then with the sunbeam's flight, 
Its glory faded quite away; 

The raindrop sank from sight. 

What was it brought that tiny thing 

From out its secret place. 
Invested it so suddenly 

With such superior grace? 
The sunbeam, say you, "Yes, my friend, 

Your lips have spoken right; 
The raindrop owed its beauty 

To that wand'ring beam of light." 

And is there not a lesson here. 

Dear friend, for you and me? 
Most forcibly the raindrop speaks 

Of what a soul may be. 
In sin and darkness long it lies, 

TJnseen, unknown, when lo 
A sunflash from truth's cloudless skies. 

Sets the dark soul aglow. 

Transformed in truth's eflfulgent light, 

It's glory shines afar. 
Precious in the Creator's sight, 

*'A bright and morning star," 
And best of all this wond'rous Hght 

Will never fade away. 
But shineth more, and yet more bright 

"Unto the perfect day." ,| 



i88 POETICAL PORTRAITS 



RUM'S DOING. 

'Twas in the city of Brooklyn, 

That city of churches grand, 
Whose name and whose fame are sounded, 

Abroad throughout all the land — 
That a tragedy was witnessed, 

That would touch a heart of stone; 
So horrible in its nature, 

It stands by itself alone. 

The city was bathed in sunshine 

Of a fine autumnal day, 
And the streets were filled with people 

Hurrying along the way, 
When suddenly came a horseman, 

Riding at furious speed. 
Unmindful of all about him, 

Urging his trembling steed. 

A shout went up from the people 

Of wonder and horror — there. 
Held high on the horseman's shoulder, 

Was a child both frail and fair ; 
And above the wild commotion. 

Which the horseman's act had stirred, 
And above all other voices, 

Its piteous screams were heard. 

On dashed the drunken rider, 

As for destruction bound ; 
When swift as lightning falling. 

Both man and child went down; 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 189 

On pressed the frantic people, 

The maniac to secure, 
But instantly he rallied, 

And his escape made sure. 

On, on, he rushed, not knowing 

Or caring whither bound. 
But now the child is silent. 

The white lips give no sound ; 
The little head hangs helpless. 

The vital spark has fled, 
And some poor mother's idol 

Is numbered with the dead. 

We lift our hands in horror, 

'Gainst gladiatorial strife. 
Where men in wide arenas. 

Fought boldly, knife to knife ; 
Or 'gainst the wild beasts battled. 

While flowed their blood amain. 
To please the proud nobility 

Of Italy, or Spain. 

But in beloved America, 

In this enlightened day. 
Where art and science scatters 

Star gems along our way. 
Where faith rears her bright altars. 

And rings her steeple bells, 
And peals her deep-toned organs, 

And in charity excels ; 

Where sails of commerce whiten 

Our rivers, lakes, and seas. 
And freedom's starry banner 

Unfurls to every breeze; 



I go POETICAL PORTRAITS 

In this, our blood-bought heritage, 
"Home of the brave and free," 

All lands and times are rivaled 
In wild brutality. 

To palace, home and hovel. 

The rum fiend finds its way, 
Cruel, malignant, merciless. 

And tireless, night and day; 
Firing men's baser passions, 

With wild Satanic fire, 
'Til on the weak and innocent 

They vent their savage ire. 

'Gainst woman's tearful pleading. 

And childhood's helplessness, 
That should awaken sympathy. 

Kind word and fond caress. 
Rough blows, and kicks, and curses, 

Fall like, the leaden hail, 
'Til hearts in grief are broken. 

And cheeks in death grow pale. 

O pitying God ! from Heaven 

Look on this awful curse. 
This desolating plague spot. 

That shames Thy universe. 
O come ! before in darkness 

Hope's radiant light expires, 
Break down rum's bloody altars, 

And quench its altar fires. 

Then shall this mighty nation. 
In deed, and truth, be free; 

And rum's poor slaves and victims 
Hold glorious jubilee ; 



POETICAL FORI RAITS igr 

Then shall the bow of promise 

From shore to shore expand, 
Crowned with this fair inscription — - 

"God, Home, and Native Land." 

LINES. 

(Written for the second anniversary of the Rose, 
W. C. T. U.) 

Twice the flowers have bloomed and withered, 

Since we organized this band, 
Twice the reaper's song has sounded 

Jubilant throughout the land, 
Twice the rulers of creation, 

And the guardians of home, 
Have had leave to cast their ballots, 

'Gainst the demon power of rum. 

Are we coming any nearer 

To the grand prophetic day, 
When the black cloud of intemperance 

From the skies shall roll away? 
Hear you any cheerful answer 

From the watchman on the tower? 
Does he cry, "The morning cometh 

Dawning brighter every hour?" 

Are the prayers of tearful millions 

Being answered day by day. 
Do the signs of promise thicken 

All along our weary way? 
"No," you answer by your silence, 

"Daylight doth not yet appear, 
And the watchman doth not give us, 

One sweet word of hope or cheer." 



ig2 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

Earnest prayers from waiting millions, 

Seem to bring no answer yet ; 
And the echo of our wailings 

With a mocking curse is met. 
Now, my sisters, shall we waver 

In this long and fearful fight ? 
Shall we furl our silken banner 

That has waved so long for right? 

Shall we hush our sad heart's pleading 

For the cause we love so well, 
While our dear ones wander helpless 

Down the drunkard's path to hell? 
"No," ten thousand voices answer 

"Never shall our flag be furled, 
'Til the tem.perance dawn in splendor 

Re-illuminates the world." 

God we know has heard our pleading, 

'Tis the promise of His Word, 
And we will not faint or murmur, 

Tho' the answer be deferred ; 
Though the darkness be as midnight, 

And the night be drear and lone. 
We will never loose the armor, 

'Til this curse be overthrown. 

In our very midst the monster 

Rears his cruel hydra head, 
And along our streets go reeling 

Night by night the living dead. 
Bitten by this great rum demon. 

How the victims multiply. 
Poor, and weak, and blind, and helpless, 

See them drink and drink, and die. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 193 

Fathers, husbands, sons, and brothers, 

Meeting there one common fate. 
While in mourning stand the altars 

Left behind them desolate. 
O the ruin wrought around us, 

By this withering wind of death ; 
O the opening buds of promise 

Blighted by its poison breath. 

From the scenes of earthly conflict 

We are soon to pass away. 
From the sowing to the reaping 

Of the awful judgment day. 
If we dream of golden harvests. 

We must sow the seed amain, 
"Cast our bread upon the waters 

That it may return again." 

So, my sisters, may God help you, 

Now to take a firmer stand, 
'Neath the banner of our order, 

God, and Home, and Native Land. 
Loving, loyal, trusting ever, 

Christ will hope and strength renew, 
And with victory crown the efforts 

Of the W. C. T. U. 

THE JOHNSTOWN FLOOD. 

Rain, rain, rain, steadily, wearily down; 

Day after day there rested alway 
A shadow o'er citv and town. 



194 POE TICAL FOR TRAITS 

High amid Pennsylvania's mountains, 
Where the Conemaugh river ran, 

A barrier lay across the way — 
A ruinous, worthless dam. 

A wild, wierd deluge of waters. 

Imprisoned, yet scarce controlled, 

Increased each hour from the falling shower, 
And torrents that into it rolled. 

Meanwhile as the straining barrier 

Trembled from shore to shore. 
And the angry tide rose far and wide. 

With an ever increasing roar. 

The startled watchers made haste to send. 
This word to each threatened town, 

The dam at the lake will surely break. 
If you linger, you will be drowned. 

A few were warned of their peril then, 

And fled for their lives away, 
Nor stayed them there not a moment, where 

Such terrible danger lay. 

An hour passed by and a horseman rode 
Down the winding river's course, 

With a wild cry, "You must run or die," 
He shouted till he was hoarse. 

Too late, too late, to avert their fate ; 

For the horrible tide of death 
Is flowing amain, and they flee in vain, 

And struggle, and gasp for breath. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 195 

In that fierce strife like a thing- of hfe 

Rushed the awful torrent down 
With a demon's power, and there fell that hour 

Full many a thriving town. 

Full many a thriving town was filled 

With the dead and dying then ; 
And the air was rent to the firmament, 

With the wails and shrieks of men. 

Bridges and buildings were mingled there, 

Uplifted, and crushed, and driven, 
While great waves rolled with a strength untold, 

A wonder to earth and heaven. 

A few on the hillsides looked aghast, 

On the fearful scene beneath, 
Powerless to save from a watery grave, 

Or a violent, tragic death. 

Then the sights they saw, and sounds they heard, 

No mortal could paint or tell. 
For the fire fiend rose with a train of woes, 

That rivaled the scenes of hell. 

Some dead, some dying, some caught, and held 

In a pyramidal wreck 
Were cruelly burned, while so many yearned 

The billows of flame to check. 

Fathers, and mothers, and children fair. 

Husbands, and sisters, and wives. 
Breathed one wild prayer, then in mute despair 

Yielded up their precious lives. 



7p<5 POETICAL PORTRAITS 

Just one short hour, and the work was done, 

The ruin was all complete, 
Every voice was stilled, every form was chilled, 

Every heart had ceased to beat. 

Then news went forth to south and north, 

To the east, and far, far west, 
And the sad detail of that flooded A^ale, 

Woke pity in every breast. 

From many an eye, that had long been dry. 

Tears flowed like the summer rain, 
And appeal for aid that was quickly made, 

Was not sent abroad in vain. 

The rich of their hoarded bounty gave. 

The poor of their scanty store. 
Even foreign lands opened wide their hands, 

Never such was seen before. 

Again was fulfilled the saying old, 

In the midst of life's wild din. 
One touch of human sympathy maketh 

Forever the whole earth kin. 

Then into that awful graveyard went. 

As soon as the flood was o'er, 
Brave workers, who toiled where flood had spoiled, 

'Mid wreckage of stream and shore. 

And the good work begun, went bravely on. 

With a strong determined will. 
So the sad ones left although sore bereft 

Could abide in the valley still. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS 197 

But as days went by, and the friends came not, 

As they came in days of yore, 
And the places that knew them once so well. 

Knew them on earth no more ; 

! who shall picture the stony grief, 
And the bitter, stinging pain. 

Of those, whom that fate had made desolate. 
And desolate must remain. 

So stunned at first by the wild outburst, 

They were dazed and helpless then, 
In that trying ordeal, they could not feel 

'Til feeling came back again. 

Now some will say, it was God's own way. 

And God's own sovereign will, 
As it was God they should welcome the rod. 

And calmly trust in Him still. 

1 do not know, but cannot think so, 
Nor charge Him with the ruin made, 

I lay the cause to some natural laws 
Which mortals had not obeyed. 

If the dam had been more substantial 

That guarded the lake that day, 
The Lord wise and good I'm sure never would 

Have swept its foundation away. 

God works above in infinite love. 

And we have our work below, 
When e'er we shirk any part of our work, 

The fault is our own we know. 



Index. 



PAGE 

Our Martyred Presidents 3 

Twenty Years to Come 12 

Thanksgiving 15 

The Church Fair 17 

An Adirondack Pine 23 

The Bible 25 

Honor to Youth and Old Age 27 

Dreamland 29 

Winter in the Adirondacks 31 

Round and Round 37 

The Months of the Year 38 

Star Lake 41 

Walking the Plank 46 

Hate and Love 49 

Heaven 50 

Autumn 51 

Why? 51 

The First Snowstorm 53 

The Midnight Thunder Peel 54 

Fm Growing Old 55 

A Pathetic Incident 56 

Newton Falls and Benson Mines 58 

Wanakena 62 

Sitting Around 63 

Day and Night 64 

The First Robin 69 



INDEX rgg 

Ode to the Moon 69 

A Sin of Omission 71 

Come Up to the Mount of God 72 

I Wonder 74 

Christian Endeavor Thoughts 75 

The Saloon 76 

Divine Dehverance 'j'j 

On Being Asked by Miss W. to Write Her a Poem 80 

The Clouds Return After the Rain 80 

An Evening Reverie 81 

Song — Temperance Cranks 84 

Retouched 85 

Greeting to County Lodge, I. O. G. T 87 

God's Will and Way 89 

Isaiah 53-6 91 

The Office Sought the Man 91 

I Had Rather be Good than Great 93 

The Burning Question 93 

Anticipation 95 

A Ray of Light 96 

Recollections 97 

Reflections 98 

Poem. (Read at Fourth of July Picnic) 99 

Spring and its Teachings 102 

Beautiful Sunlight 103 

It is Better in the Sunshine 105 

The Golden Stair 106 

The Music of The Air 109 

Be Patient with the Children no 

The Curse of Rum in 

Come to Me, Beautiful Angels 114 

The Summer Bloom is Fading 115 

In Green Pastures 117 

The Sainted Dead 119 



^oo INDEX 

The Balm of Music 120 

A Christmas Poem 122 

County Lodge Poem, I. O. G. T 126 

Longing 129 

The Pity of It 130 

The Passing of a December Day 136 

County Lodge Poem, L O. G. T 137 

The Prodigal Son 139 

Honor to the Brave 147 

At Eventide 150 

One Talent 151 

Submission 153 

The Tide of the Years 153 

Alone With My Savior 155 

Home, Sweet Home 156 

Elijah's Translation 158 

The Snow 160 

"Alone." 160 

An Appeal to Autumn 162 

A Woodland Stream 163 

Shadow and Substance 164 

Planting the Trees 165 

Long Ago 166 

A Morning in Spring 167 

Reclaimed 168 

Childhood Days 171 

A Child's Question 172 

A Bit of Advice 173 

The New Crusade 173 

Criticised 183 

The Raindrop 186 

Rum's Doing 188 

Lines. (Written for 2d Anniversary W. C. T. U.). 191 

The Johnstown Flood 193 



JUN 13 1903 



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